Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

“Didn’t you see him? Over there, look, going towards the ice!”

“No way, is it really him?”

“Uh huh. Won’t even look our way. What a dick.”

“He’s so fucking full of himself. I’m tired of it. Just ‘cause he was going to Regionals doesn’t mean he gets to act like he’s above us all.”

“Can you guys lay off? You all know what happened.”

“Why should I care? He’s still just as rude as always.”

“I heard he used bribes, too. He’s a scumbag, why should we feel sorry for him?

“Guys, seriously, he’s-”

“He’s crazy. Got such a temper. No wonder Marsh didn’t want to be friends with him anymore.”

“He’s a fucking douche with a massive ego. I don’t know why they were friends in the first place.”

“Can you guys shut up? You’re being dicks.”

“Whatever. Just seeing Kyle’s face makes me want to die. I hate him.”

“I don’t need a plan, Kenny. How many times do I have to tell you this?” Stan slumps into his seat, the lunch tray in front of him beckoning for his attention. The food is unappetising, hardly filling at all; he can only pick at meagre bits before he has to stop to let his stomach settle.

Stan’s realising now how empty this cafeteria feels without Kyle. Even if he didn’t speak, it’d still be comforting to have his presence as he scribbled down his homework, his curls suddenly shooting up in a panic to question Stan on whether he’d done his insulin. It had been over a year since he’s heard about Kyle dropping out under unknown circumstances; Stan supposes it’d probably be worse to have his judging gaze on his back as he ate as well as when he plays hockey.

“I know, I know, Christ. I just think you’d be a little better off knowing what you’re getting yourself into!” Kenny’s leaning over the table, his plastic fork loaded with bland food that he stuffs into his mouth. He can’t afford to be picky, not like Stan.

“It’d ruin the whole idea of it. Kyle’s not some project. He’s my best friend.”

“Yeah. That you haven’t talked to in, what, four years?”

Stan’s hopeful expression drops into a look of scorn.

He’s still unsure of what he wants or what he should do. Whether what he’s chasing is unattainable, his fingertips are brushing against something so close yet so far. If he runs this race, he'll simply collapse before he reaches the finish line.

Stan already feels like he’s losing. He's out of breath, his limbs are aching, and his mind is racing. He’s barely covered any distance, yet giving up would be so easy.

“It needs to be real, y’know? I need to find out what I did, or what happened, and make it right.”

Stan labours over the age-old question for the rest of the day. He’s more reserved, sort of stuck in his thoughts. He ponders endlessly over cause, problem, and solution - each twist in the road leaves him more lost than before.

In English, he thinks about what he could’ve done wrong. He recounts past years, artfully dodging bad memories and combing through the good to search for what he needed. Yet, after all that, there’s nothing.

What can we understand from the source material about the impact of the betrayal of Banquo?

Banquo and Macbeth shared similar ideals. I didn’t do anything. I called, I texted, I just wanted to be with him all the time. Something that was admirable within Banquo, was Macbeth’s true hamartia. Did I spend too much time at practice? Did I leave him behind?

Guilt swirls in Stan’s stomach. It’s the only reasonable explanation he can offer. He’s always found it difficult to divide his attention. Kyle had always been the centre of his universe, and Stan was entirely dedicated to orbiting him. Everything Stan did was for Kyle’s approval, Kyle’s entertainment, and Kyle’s love. Maybe Kyle had gotten sick of how entirely dedicated Stan was. It was almost pathetic, the things he would’ve done for Kyle back when they were eleven and had no clue how the world worked, and the things he would still do for him with no hesitation.

In algebra, he thinks of ways to make it better.

If x is four, then there’s no way Kyle will want me back. He got tired of me playing him. What the fuck is a? I can’t do this. I don’t even know why we stopped being friends. Is it eight? I need to at least try. For both of us.

As he’s leaving his locker to meet Kenny at the end of the day, Stan runs into Wendy Testaburger. Her arms are filled with thick textbooks, none slipping or falling despite the less-than-graceful collision with Stan. She smiles, flicking her sleek black hair away from her eyes.

“Hi, Stanley.” Always polite and careful with her words.

Stan wants to like her. He does, as a friend, as company when the rest of the hockey boys can’t seem to understand the weight that rests on his shoulders. She would be the ideal girlfriend, and together they’d be the dream American couple. Stan’s in love with the idea of loving her, yet he doesn’t. His heart is at a crossroads, begging to go one way, while Wendy waits patiently at the end of the other road.

She’s like a doll, all porcelain skin and long hair. Stan would preserve that, kiss her gently and touch her with delicacy. They’d hug and they’d smile, all too routine and too perfect.

They had tried to date when they were in elementary school, but never got much further than holding hands underneath the benches at lunch and telling everybody they would be married someday. When they started middle school, Wendy approached him, full of the same confidence he admired so much. She demanded that they break up, that Stan didn’t give her enough of his time, then gave the excuse that she didn’t have enough time for a relationship. Stan had simply gone along with it, unwilling to upset her anymore, but the two had remained close ever since. Being friends has worked out much better for them so far anyway.

“Did you want anything?” She tilts her head, her long eyelashes batting. Stan snaps out of his daydream.

“N-No, I didn’t. Sorry about that. How are you?”

Wendy is all sunshine. She can be fierce, burning with intensity, but to Stan, she’s hope.

“I’m good, thank you! Heading to my debate club. Do you have practice tonight? How’s it going? Do you have a match soon?”

It’s a flurry of questions that Stan can barely process.

“Yeah, practice tonight. I made Captain, did you hear?” Wendy beams, her eyes widening.

“Oh, that’s just amazing, Stan! You must have worked so hard!” Stan laughs, a little awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. He can’t quite place why Wendy being on the debate team has unsettled his stomach.

“I’m really proud of you.” Her smile is sweet, and her eyes bore deep into Stan. He feels like he’s being stripped back, like his innermost thoughts and desires will be put on display for Wendy to see and scorn at.

“Thank you.” It’s all he can manage as Wendy turns to leave with a small wave.

It hits him, then.

“Hey, Wendy,” She spins around again, looking inquisitive. “You said you were heading to debate. How’s Kyle? He’s still on debate, right?”

She pauses for a moment, like she’s carefully selecting each word.

“Oh, no, I don't know. He quit a few months before he dropped out. Not a word or anything. I tried to call him a few times, but he never picked up.” Wendy shrugs, sympathy filling out her face. “I really need to go now, Stan. I hope you find what you’re looking for!”

She leaves in a hurry, leaving Stan gaping at her words.

I hope you find what you’re looking for.

His head is spinning, thoughts rushing past like vignettes. Stan doesn’t say a word to Kenny when they finally meet outside the school, walking home in complete silence as he tries to make sense of Wendy’s vague departure.

Stan’s feet seem to carry him home after he splits off from Kenny. It doesn’t register that Shelley’s car is parked out front or that the door is unlocked.

Everything unravels when Stan steps into the house and is immediately hit by the sickening smell of alcohol. Randy leers by the door, glaring at Stan as he struggles to keep upright.

“Um, hi?” Stan’s heart is beginning to pick up the pace. He grips his backpack strap with white knuckles, maintaining unbroken eye contact with his father.

“You’ve been in my beer again, you little shit.” Randy slurs, taking an uneven, threatening step towards Stan. He backs up, his expression falling further.

"No, I haven’t.” Stan spits, his fury at the accusation leaking into his tone, “Don’t try to pin it on me because you can’t fucking remember what you drunk.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Tensions are getting higher. As Stan inches towards the door, Randy reaches forward, grabbing at his son’s jaw in a vice grip. Stan swears, hands flying up to scrabble at Randy’s arm. It’s no use.

“Fucking admit it, you thief,” Randy’s grip only grows tighter, “You’re tearing this family apart with this shit. You hear me?! I work hard to keep all this so you can keep running your smart mouth and sitting on your ass.”

Stan doesn’t answer, still struggling against his father’s hand. He can smell the alcohol on his tongue, fighting against his stomach to hold down his retches and gags. It’s like poison to him.

“That’s all you! Jesus Christ, don’t fucking put this all on me! I got better, but you still sit around on your fat ass all day waiting for something to get you out of here! We’d be so much fucking better off without you!”

These words get a reaction out of Randy. In an instant he’s shoving Stan against the door, breathing heavily and struggling to stay standing. Stan’s nails dig deep into his father’s arm.

In the next moment, there’s another pair of hands separating them and coming between them.

All five feet and five inches of Shelley Marsh, moving forwards to keep Randy away from Stan. His ears are ringing and his head is buzzing, and he can’t hear her yelling angrily at their father.

For a moment, Stan doesn’t hear her shouting at him.

“Can you hear me, idiot? Get your skates. We’re leaving.” He snaps to attention, fumbling to grab his skate bag and stick from where he’d dumped it in the hall the night before. Randy’s still fuming and Stan can smell the alcohol - it's driving him crazy and he needs to get out. He stumbles out of the door, Shelley’s hand guiding him towards her car. Collapsing into the passenger seat, his hand comes up to rub at his jaw, tears springing to his eyes.

Stan can still feel each of Randy’s fingers digging into his cheek. He swallows down a sob, other hand gripping at the shirt covering his stomach. He feels sick. He’s definitely going to puke. The alcohol is in his nose and it’s on his tongue, and Randy’s hand was clammy and calloused, and-

“Don’t even think about throwing up.” Shelley’s firing up the ignition, pulling out of the drive with no regards for road safety.

As Shelley got older, she mellowed out a lot. She became less angry at the world, less angry at Stan, but also more reclusive. She spent more time in her room, streaming trashy teen bands or calling with her friends to talk endlessly about lost love and heartbreak.

She’d always been outspoken about her hatred for Randy. Before all the problems got worse, they’d be constantly butting heads, and it was the one thing that seemed to remain unchanged about Shelley. She was still his older sister, but she’d lost her lisp and braces and gained a fierce overprotectiveness for her little brother.

“I told you not to go around being smart toward him. You know what he gets like!” Stan slumps in his seat as Shelley lectures him.

“He thinks I stole his beer. Like, what the fuck’s wrong with him?” He’s trembling all over, arms folding in further around himself.

“I heard.” Shelley sounds irritated: “But you have to ignore him. I know it hurts when he accuses you of that. I know it better than anyone. Ignoring him is the best thing you can do to stay out of trouble.”

“You don’t get it, Shelley! It’s like he doesn’t want to see it. Notice how I’m the only one he comes to when he can’t remember how many fucking beers he’s had. It’s only ever me! And I’ve told him so, so many times to stop, but he doesn’t care!”

Stan turns away from Shelley’s wandering eyes.

“It’s like he wants me to end up like him. Y’know, too fucking drunk to know what day it is. I don’t get why he wants this family to stay together when he’s the one that’s fucked it all up.”

Shelley’s hands tighten around the wheel.

“At least you could make it big off your hockey. You’ve got shit to keep you going, and shit to look forward to. Soon enough you’ll be away from him, Stan.”

He smiles slightly, still watching the landscape pass him by from the window. The sun is setting over the mountains in the distance. It's a picturesque scene, one that Stan might have possibly found himself aweing at if not for the wild accusations thrown his way this evening.

They pull into the parking lot of the ice rink. It’s quiet, as always, a few cars littered here and there. Stan moves to clamber out of the car. He hisses at the cold air that hits him as he steps out, bag haphazardly resting on his shoulder, stick in hand.

“Stan?” He freezes up, “Don’t worry about Dad. He’s fucking stupid.” Nodding slowly, Stan manages a weak smile. He nods at Shelley before closing the car door.

She pulls away as Stan hurries towards the rink doors. The lights in there are bright and it’s all clean, polished - a wholly unfamiliar yet calming environment for him.

He briefly wonders why he’s told so much to not worry. Stan almost feels like he’s fighting an uphill battle. Whenever he speaks Randy’s name it’s like it’s a ruined prayer, a family man tainted by Satan and his selfish desires. His dad’s wrath is ugly, his greed is insufferable. He holds no lust for anything other than distant dreams of heedless success; ones where Sharon is his devoted, well-kept wife and Shelley and Stan are his two obedient children. Not a hair out of place or a toe out of line.

A picture-perfect family, trapped within a false scene not much unlike that golden sunset. Stan sometimes finds himself desperately indulging in fantasies of killing his father, ruining their portraits with ugly red marks, and taking Sharon and Shelley with him to safety. The most unrealistic part of it all is Kyle, silently cheering on Stan and reassuring him that he’s doing what’s right. That Randy doesn’t deserve to live.

He does feel guilty over these dreams. He especially feels guilty for still needing Kyle’s approval in matters that shouldn’t concern him.

Maybe he truly is going mad. Stan hasn’t felt like himself in a while.

The chill of the rink wraps itself around Stan as he pushes the doors open. It’s like a hug, different from the biting cold outside but just as familiar a sensation. He walks over to the rink wall, quiet chatter filling his ears, the sounds of blades meeting ice echoing around the large room.

It’s just for a moment that Stan happens to glance at the rink. There’s a blur of flaming hair, moving with such ease that it’s almost as if their blades rest just barely touching the ice. Each movement is fluid and calculated - an almost thoughtless adjustment of the arms, a slight bend in the knees and then they’re airborne, twisting with incredible speed and grace.

The pair lock eyes, for the slightest flash of time. Stan is enamoured, eyes lit up, mouth having dropped into an awed smile. The others’ are cold and distant.

It all comes crashing down in an instant, with Stan recoiling in shock and Kyle fumbling his landing and being sent skidding to the ice with a yelp.

There’s an eruption of laughter from the other side of the rink. Kyle struggles to sit up, clutching at his right leg with gritted teeth. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his head is lowered. Stan steals a look at the group of girls - clearly figure skaters, whispering in hushed tones and snickering with no regard for prying ears. His eyes find Craig Tucker at the centre and he quickly turns his head back to the ice, only to find Kyle thundering towards him with a stormy expression.

“What the fuck did you do that for?!” His voice is shaking, but his tone is clearly demanding. “You messed me up!”

“W-What? No, I didn’t, dude! I swear, I wasn’t trying to do anything!” Stan exclaims.

Kyle’s like a natural beauty up close. The ends of his curls drip sweat, and it runs in small beads down his flushed, freckled cheeks. His chest is heaving from the exertion; it rises and falls, and Stan’s eyes can’t help but wander to it. They quickly snap up in embarrassment.

“You were fucking amazing out there, man. Seriously, I had no clue you could do any of that. You-You were like, fucking beautiful.”

Stan doesn’t notice Kyle’s trembling frame freeze up. He carries on rambling, using meaningless words he hopes can fill Kyle’s heart just a little.

“I’m so, so sorry that I screwed that up for you. Everything else was sick! You’re so good, dude!”

“I’m not as good as you think.” Kyle says, so quick and so quiet that Stan would have missed it if not for their proximity. His head tilts, confusion filling his expression as Kyle’s curls fall to obscure his eyes.

“That’s not true. You probably do everything perfectly every single time…” But Kyle’s skating away, and Stan’s trailing off, his words hanging in the air like a morning mist.

It could have gone worse. Stan had expected more accusing fingers, raised voices, and hateful insults. He hopes this is an indication that it will be a little easier than he first anticipated.

Snide laughter fills his ears again. It’s the same group as before, but Stan can only guess as to who they are from afar. They’re gesturing towards Kyle on the ice, with his back turned to them. It’s enough to get Stan’s attention, and it’s enough to piss him off.

Stan finds that he isn’t an angry person. He finds it easier to forgive than to hold onto hate, nor is he a confrontational person. He doesn’t like violence. He especially hates fights. For Kyle, though, he’d let go of all those values immediately.

He’s not exactly the image of an intimidating figure as he makes his way over to Craig and her gang. The others give Stan a look of disgust as he approaches them. The smallest of the girls looks more apologetic, offering Stan a small smile.

“What’s your damage, Marsh?” Craig’s always been taller than Stan. She looks down on him, and he feels like he’s crumbling under her intimidating gaze.

One girl whispers something to another, who struggles to stifle her laughter.

“I just wanna know what your problem is. You guys are acting like kids. Like seriously, laughing at Kyle? It’s fucking weird, dude.”

As the smallest girl’s eyes fall to her shoes, Craig’s expression shifts to annoyed.

“I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can’t do. You don’t even know Kyle.” The other girls chime in with their agreements. Stan opens his mouth to argue, but is cut off.

“He’s so stuck up. He thinks he’s so much better than us, especially ever since he came back.”

“He got all this special treatment, and now we don’t even exist to him! Heidi’s sure he used bribes to get that far.”

“There’s no way he didn’t. Apparently he’s been taking steroids, too.”

“Guys,” One girl attempts feebly to enter the conversation, but is shut down before she can get another word in edgeways.

“It makes me sick knowing he liked me in fourth grade. He’s turned out to be so awful. You did well to get away from him.”

“Can you all shut up?!” Stan exclaims, teeth clenched, “There’s no way that any of that is true. No fucking way.”

“How would you know? You left him.” Craig’s words are like a blow to the gut, and Stan has to turn and leave before his anger begins to cloud his foresight.

He doesn’t see Kyle’s eyes following him as he storms to the hockey teams’ changing rooms.

Stan lands on the bench with a thud, tossing his stick carelessly aside and burying his head deep into his hands. Everything Craig said to incriminate Kyle couldn’t possibly be true. Some of them Stan knew just couldn’t be true, but others were beginning to paint an alarmingly clear picture within his head.

Kyle had changed. It was a jarring, complete u-turn from the boy Stan had shared so much of himself with in childhood. Some parts, some parts that were so intrinsic and so core to Kyle Broflovski, Stan could easily recognise. But scarily, he didn’t recognise the person that his best friend had become.

In losing Kyle, it feels like he’s lost a part of himself.

During practice, Stan is quiet. His movements are lethargic and he’s too far in his own mind, so far that Kyle’s eyes following him around the rink don’t bother him.

Cartman isn’t as keen to let him off as easily. During drills he knocks into Stan a little harder than usual, and laughs a little louder at his mistakes. While they’re together Ike rolls his eyes at a few of Cartman’s insults, offering Stan a reassuring fistbump or smile. He sorely wishes he could just snap out of it.

None of it goes unnoticed. Their coach ends practice early, gesturing for Stan to meet him at the edge of the rink. He’s downcast, frowning at his skates as he makes his way over.

“What was all that about, Marsh? You’re off your game.” Stan’s coach is a blunt man. He’s not unnecessarily unkind, nor is he quick to rise to anger. He knows what needs to be done and how to get it.

“Sorry. A lot on my mind. I’ll be better next time.” His voice is flat.

“You better.” His coach manages a slight chuckle, “Everything’s still good at home, right?”

Stan sort of struggles to get the words out right. He doesn’t like worrying people, especially not those who have the power to take away all that’s keeping him going.

“Y-Yeah! It’s great. Nothing to worry about!” Stan smiles cheesily, “Really, it’s just friend stuff. I won’t let it affect the team anymore, though.”

His coach goes to exit the ice, with Stan following behind.

“I hope not, Marsh. While you’re here, too, I want to let you know about a new assistant coach who should be starting soon. I don’t know who he is or if he’s any good, but it’ll take a lotta stress off my back having him around.”

“Oh. Okay, um, thanks.” Stan steps off the ice and reaches for his skate guards.

“You’d tell me if stuff was happening at home again, wouldn’t you, Marsh? You can trust me.” His coach has stopped, watching carefully as Stan slides on his skate guards.

“Yeah. Sure.” Stan lies, unsure of how to make himself sound convincing.

“Glad you can tell me. And I’m not just saying that ‘cause we need you for the next match.” His coach laughs, while Stan can only muster an awkward smile.

“Oh, and send Ike back here, will you? He wanted to talk to me.” Stan nods, beginning his walk back to the changing room. His coach sends him off with an almost fatherly pat on the back. He wishes he could revel in the touch; maybe he even wishes his dad would treat him with the same affection his coach does.

There’s a lot Stan finds himself wishing for, and every time he never gets it. He really should give up on it.

After directing Ike to their coach, Stan changes as quickly as possible. He lugs his bag and stick to the stands, lighting up in delight when he sees Kyle there, engrossed in a thick textbook. He’s poring over it, scribbling wildly, oblivious to the world around him. A pair of glasses balance precariously on his nose.

Stan seats himself a couple of rows in front of Kyle, back straight and staring dead ahead. He’s got no clue of how to begin. He shifts uncomfortably, kicking a leg up onto the chair next to him.

Daring to twist and steal a look at Kyle, Stan has to bite back a yelp at seeing him stare directly at him, expression filled with confusion. Stan goes rigid; his heart begins to pound wildly.

“Do you want something?” Kyle’s expression is confused, a little irked.

“Oh! Hi! Nooo… not really.” Stan laughs gracelessly. Kyle’s eyebrows quirk, and he moves to look back at his textbook.

Stan scrambles to his feet, almost tripping as he clambers over the seats to perch himself next to his former friend. Kyle blanches and flinches away, staring Stan down in surprise.

“Bruises… There are bruises on your jaw.” Kyle comments, his mouth seeming to move before his mind. Stan chokes, forcing out a reply as a hand flies up to swipe over his jaw. It's cold and sore.

“It’s nothing! Just from hockey!” Kyle seems unconvinced. Stan stutters, attempting to save the conversation from taking a horrific and unwanted dive.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for those guys. You know, Craig and the others. I tried to tell them to stop, but they just wouldn’t. I think you’re great, I really do! Don’t listen to them, okay?”

Kyle’s mouth is agape, as if Stan is speaking a foreign language to him.

“I-I don’t need you to defend me. It’s all just stupid fucking rumors. I really don’t care about them.” Yet his eyes are falling to the concrete and his voice is decreasing in volume.

“That doesn’t make it any less fucked, dude.” Stan shuffles forwards, draping his hands gently across Kyle’s clasped ones. “And I really, really think you looked incredible on the ice. I wanna see you do that more often.” His voice is practically a whisper, a confession meant only for Kyle’s ears. But Kyle’s shaking his head, pulling his hands away from Stan’s.

“Please don’t lie to me.” He bites back, voice quivering. Stan swears he feels his heart shatter.

“I’m not, I’m not. I swear. You’re amazing.” Kyle stands up, flustered, clumsily grabbing for his bag and textbook.

“I need to go.” He pushes past Stan, not daring to look back.

Stan watches in disbelief as he navigates the steep stairs and out of the door. He has to lean back in his chair, clutching at his shirt as his chest heaves. His hands are still buzzing, sparks flying where they had held Kyle’s with so much care and so much anticipation.

Suddenly his jaw doesn’t seem to ache anymore. All Stan feels are his hands and heart warming, and his evening is finally becoming a little brighter.

I hope you find what you're looking for.

Chapter Text

Music blares from a battered stereo in the corner of Stan’s room. The guitar is distorted and each hit of a drum reverberates through his skull, not to mention the awfully thocky bass that’s too deep and all wrong.

Stan is hunched over his desk. He’s poring over Math homework, the numbers blurring into one big mass in his textbook. He sighs and scrubs his eyes, exhausted. A hand falls to his bruised jaw.

If Kyle were here, he’d explain it all. He’d sit patiently, pointing at each number with the end of his pencil while Stan nods patiently and tries his hardest to focus on Kyle’s dumbed-down explanation of arithmetic. He used to find himself not paying attention regardless. He’d listen to Kyle’s passionate voice, smiling stupidly until he was rudely awaken by a slap to the back of his head. Then Kyle would take his textbook and fill in the answers, grumbling while Stan would laugh his heart out.

He closes the textbook with a huff and turns in his chair to face his room. It’s almost a box room; Stan’s sure that if he tried hard enough, he would be able to stand in the middle of the room and touch each wall with his fingertips.

Stan’s bed is unmade, blankets and pillows strewn across it. Kyle had always complained about how restless of a sleeper he was. Especially when they would both cram themselves into Stan’s twin bed, Sharon and Randy claiming there was no need for him to buy a bigger bed while it fell apart underneath them. Peeling posters cover every inch of the walls - all celebrating niche rock bands from all over the world or the ice hockey players he’d looked up to as a child.

On his bedside table is an empty water bottle and pill bottles of varying quantities. All the surfaces and drawers in his room seem to spill out, endless amounts of clothes, trophies, medals and treasured childhood objects litter them, no particular rhyme or reason for them being where they are. They cascade onto the floor, a sort of organised clutter in which Stan knew where everything was, but the room was still akin to that of a bombing scene.

One corner of the room, adjacent to the door and arguably the tidiest corner, is Stan’s greatest treasure. His stereo is kept on a small rack, record player balanced precariously on top. The shelf below is overflowing with records, cassettes and CD’s. Next to all of this is Stan’s pride and joy - his electric guitar.

It’s battered, chips in the body, with fading frets and inlays. Stan had found it in the window of a thrift store years prior. He remembers how overjoyed Kyle and Kenny had been when he spent all his money on it, how horrified Sharon had been at first, the brief moment his father had taken interest in his passion for music.

Stan stands up from his chair, reaching for the neck of the guitar and the cable looped around it. He plugs one end into the jack, the other into a small amp he’d found just a few weeks after the discovery of the guitar at a yard sale. Its sound is crackly and slightly off-key, but Stan had firmly decided he liked it.

He drops the strap of the guitar around his neck and flips on the amp. It clicks into life, a static buzz filling the room. Stan plays a few experimental notes while adjusting the tuning pegs, before launching into the beginnings of a rock song.

It’s a song he’s heard before, a song he has the CD album of, has played front and back and has committed all of the guitar to memory. Sometimes he wishes he could share the song with Kyle. It’s a cheesy rock ballad, the sort of music Kyle always hated but put up with for the sake of sharing headphones with Stan on rainy days. As he approaches the chorus, muttering the lyrics under his breath as he plays, there’s a raucous banging on his door. Stan begins to play more furiously.

He knows exactly who it is. He also knows that he doesn’t want to talk to him.

The intensity of Stan’s music increases with the frustration on the other side of the door. His heart is racing and his fingers are moving with ease and familiarity across the frets, before Randy bursts unceremoniously into the room, beer bottle in hand.

Stan freezes, the amp humming to an abrupt stop. Static fills the air once more as the two stare each other down; Stan breathless, hunched over his guitar, Randy barely able to focus on his son.

“Thought I told you to fucking stop with the guitar. You can’t even play it right.” Randy’s insult is barely coherent. He’s supporting himself with the doorframe. His hair is tousled, his eyes sunken, clothes unwashed, and he towers over Stan, eyes as black as tar.

“So? ‘S not like you ever play.” Stan mutters. His grip around the guitar’s neck tightens as Randy’s mouth purses.

“You’re lucky I don’t smash that piece of trash. Ungrateful dick.” Stan scowls at his words, freeing himself from the guitar’s peeling leather strap and leaning it carefully against the wall.

“What do you want? You never come up here.” Stan crouches down to flick off the amp. He feels his father’s shadow crawl over his back, poisoning wherever it touches, draining the room of all light. It makes his stomach turn.

“The Broflovski kid’s at the door. Go answer it.” Stan shoots up, mouth agape and eyes wide.

“Who, Kyle?! Why the fuck did you just leave him outside?!” Stan races to grab his jacket, pushing past Randy unceremoniously.

“You’re fucking useless, I swear.” He mumbles as Randy protests, staggering behind his son.

“What the fuck did you just say?!” Randy bellows, but Stan’s not listening, struggling against his jacket and shoving his feet into battered sneakers. His heart feels like it’s about to claw its way out of his chest, into the world for those he’s most afraid of to see.

Randy’s stood in the hallway, ranting about Stan’s disrespect and poor attitude. He can’t bring himself to care anymore. The words aren’t empty, they’re filled with his father’s bitter hatred. They cut and burn and leave him lying awake at night, wondering where it all went wrong and who was truly at fault for it all. But right now, with hope on the other side of the door, Stan feels untouchable.

He opens the door to Ike standing there, looking up expectantly at Stan. There’s a small part of him that feels a little relieved.

Ike’s smile drops a little when he hears Randy’s crazed yelling. Stan steps out of the house, closing the door behind him with a sigh.

“Is your Dad okay?” Ike’s voice is hushed and his manner is apprehensive.

“He’s fine. He gets like that sometimes.” Stan pulls his jacket closer around his body. He steals a brief glance at the door, realising he can still hear muffled shouting on the other side.

“He didn’t look fine,” Ike starts, puzzled. Stan interrupts him with a stammer, a fake, too cheery laugh.

“Don’t worry about it, seriously. Why’d you come over, anyway? Is something up?” Ike’s gaze falls to his shoes for a moment as he chooses his words.

“I just wondered if you wanted to go out. Like, for food, maybe. Kyle was gonna take me, but he can’t anymore.”

Stan’s eyebrow quirks up at that. He takes a step forwards and loops his arm around Ike’s shoulder, smiling as he directs them down the driveway.

“Sure! You got anywhere in mind?” Ike is rigid under his arm, shivering a little with the cold.

“Not really.” He looks over at Shelley’s car in the driveway, leaning in towards the taller boy for warmth. “Aren’t we… gonna drive?”

Stan slows for a moment. He turns his head to look at Shelley’s car, before bursting out into laughter.

“What? No, that’s Shelley’s. She’d kill me. Besides, I don’t drive.” He unhooks his arm to shove both his hands deep into his pockets. Stan stares dead ahead, hesitant to meet Ike’s inquisitive gaze.

“You don’t? But my Mom was saying that—”

“I don’t drive.” He says it more firmly this time. As if it would make the statement more true.

“Kyle said—”

“Please, just drop it?” Stan’s tone is almost pleading. He dares to make eye contact with Ike, just for a moment, the awkward connection just enough to send Stan’s stomach flipping.

He wishes he weren’t such a coward, sometimes.

Ike falls silent. He looks anywhere but at Stan, tugging at his watch, his coat sleeve, anything.

“Sorry. Mom says I need to stop being so pushy. It annoys Kyle, too.” Ike speaks in an undertone. Stan curses his heart for picking up at the mention of Kyle, still, after everything.

“You’re fine, honestly.” Stan manages a small smile, “I’m sorry I can’t drive you. I know it’s cold, dude.” Ike’s cheeks are tinged red with embarrassment as he grins back.

“No worries.” When Ike exhales, his breath billows out in small puffs. He fiddles with the hem of his jacket as they walk. The sky above them is grey, swirling dull monochrome clouds and casting a muddy feel across the streets of South Park. It’s a miserable existence; most residents would agree. You’re born and you die in South Park, unless some miracle comes along to spirit you away with dreams of stardom and fame. You play the cards you’re dealt and you don’t complain.

Stan’s accepted he’ll probably be stuck here. He’s not all too miserable about it. Between his broken family and barely passable grades, he’s counting solely on his hockey career to free him. At one point his future had revolved entirely around Kyle - Stan had spent shame-filled nights planning it. Where they’d live, how they’d spend their evenings - Stan cooking dinner while Kyle read some old book he’d never heard the name of.

They’d share this life together and treasure their time with the other, and while details would change and the ages of their imaginary kids would switch, each night would end with Kyle falling asleep in Stan’s arms, just as they had done for years and would do into their elder years.

These plans had been beaten beyond recognition since they were kids. There was no distant apartment, no domestic aroma of home-cooking, no fictional children to kiss on the forehead and tell tall tales to. There were no more tender hugs and no fleeting kisses, banished to the edge of the brain and locked away like a filthy secret. All Stan had was a dying dream and no more Kyle to speak of.

There’s a chill settling in Stan’s bones as he makes his way into town with Ike. The pair continue their idle chatter, Ike walking with a spring in his step that Stan lost so many years ago. They decide on a small diner, known for cheap yet greasy food. It’s almost deserted when they enter. The pair tuck themselves into a small corner booth opposite each other, and a dishevelled, bored waitress makes her way over to take their orders. Their drinks are dumped in front of them soon after.

“Why couldn’t Kyle take you out?” The question has been burning Stan’s tongue like a cattle brand. He swears he feels it cooling as the words escape. Ike shifts uncomfortably, staring at the condensation building on the glass of his milkshake.

“He wanted to. But he hurt himself at practice yesterday. Can barely walk. I got a bit pissed with him for it at first. I feel bad, now.” Alarms begin to ring in Stan’s head. He leans in slightly, voice trembling.

“Is he okay? Jesus, dude, that sounds fucking serious.” Stan can only conclude it being from the fall he witnessed yesterday.

“Oh, no, he’s fine! If he practices too much or falls on his leg too hard, it goes all stiff and painful for a bit. That’s what he told me, at least.” Ike seems so relaxed, so nonchalant as he reveals the details of his brother’s condition.

“He’s really upset about it.” His voice falls a little quieter as Stan leans in closer, disturbed expression visible in all his features. “He doesn’t wanna have to use his stick. I don’t get why. He needs it to walk, it’s not like he can avoid using it forever.”

“Kyle never needed a walking stick when we were kids.” Stan’s voice has a slight shake to it. He messes with his shirt sleeve as he speaks. “Did something happen? Is he fully, seriously okay?”

“You didn’t know? He had a real bad fall a few years back. Hospital, physio, everything. Did you not fucking notice him not being at school?” Ike looks a little confused at Stan’s bewilderment.

For a split second he feels like his world stops turning. Stan can’t imagine Kyle ever being that reckless. Every move he makes comes from a level-headed, calculated brain - he can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for the drastic situation.

“I-I knew he wasn’t in school anymore! But I didn’t know about that! How was I meant to know, dude, the guy refuses to talk to me!” Stan’s almost frantic. He feels lost, left behind, culpable for not knowing this happened to his best friend. He doesn’t understand how it could have happened.

“Oh. Yeah, I forgot about that.” Ike takes a drink of his milkshake before continuing, “I think it’s really put him in a bad place. Kyle doesn’t talk to anyone. Especially not after you. He just skates and studies all day.”

“Jesus Christ.” Stan falls back in his seat, a trembling hand reaching up to push his hair from his eyes. At that moment, their food is dropped in front of them. The pair mumble awkward thank-you’s, Stan’s appetite having suddenly faded. “So, he’s like, not okay? Fuck, why didn’t I know this?”

“He hides it well,” Ike supplies, mouth already full, “And I guess he wouldn’t want you knowing. Besides, despite everything, he’s still aiming for the Olympics. It’s a miracle he can even still fucking skate as well as he can.”

“It was that bad?” Stan slumps further, wincing.

“Mhm. Got told he’d probably never skate again. He’s not as good as he was, but he’s still really fucking good. Better than Tucker ever wishes she could be.” Ike’s tone is smug. His adoration for Kyle shines through clearly in his words, a proud smile on his face smeared by ketchup and mustard.

Stan picks up a fry from his plate. He takes a small bite, but the texture is dry and sticks in his throat. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to process this.

“I… Like, I don’t even know what I’m meant to say.”

“Something along the lines of, ‘Oh, wow, that’s awful!’ would be nice.” Ike jabs lightheartedly as Stan buries his face in his hands with a groan.

“Oh my God, I feel fucking awful.” His voice is muffled, thick, like he’s trying not to cry.

“Please don’t, Stan. You didn’t cause his injury.” Ike’s back to being worried, an arm outstretching to rest on Stan’s. It’s an empty reassurance.

“I still feel bad. It’s like I don’t know Kyle at all anymore.”

“Well, sometimes I feel like I’m the only one that does.” Ike shrugs, removing his hand as Stan reveals his face. He manages to eat a few more fries as Ike picks up his burger, seemingly unshaken by the unsettling conversation.

“I didn’t tell you any of this, by the way,” Ike warns, “Kyle’ll kill me if he knew I’d said what I have. But he’s been through some shit. Really, really bad shit. What you did to him fucked him up, and all this? It’s just made it worse. He’s got like, no-one.”

Stan doesn’t attempt to defend himself. His chewing slows down, his fries growing colder as shame clouds over him.

“I still don’t know what I did.” He mutters, an offhand comment that hangs in the tense air between them.

“It still messed him up, whatever it was.” Ike pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully, “Sometimes it’s scary how upset he gets. It’s like all his emotions are fucking amplified. But no-one seems to think it’s weird other than me. No-one’s really taken it seriously since all his fighting with Cartman.”

“Have you tried talking to your mom? She seems like she’d know what’s happening.” Stan hates the instant regret he feels from trying to offer advice. It’s like he’s intruding on a situation he’s not a part of anymore.

“She doesn’t know as much as me. Like I said, Kyle’s good at hiding it.” He sighs, and it’s sort of miserable. Tired. “I don’t know what I can do for him. But he feels like even more of a freak when people butt in on his business. I don’t even wanna know what he’d do if he heard us right now.”

“You’re scared of him?”

“No. He wouldn’t hurt me. I’m more scared he’ll hurt himself one day.” Suddenly Ike’s back to sounding like a scared child again. In all their time spent together, Stan seems to have forgotten that Ike is only thirteen.

“He was really upset about not being able to take me out, too.” His voice is unusually quiet, “I got a bit mad at him. He’s just been, like, so annoying lately. I thought he was just making excuses to not have to spend time with me.”

Stan supposes it’s reasonable. It still hurts, knowing he’s the reason his best friend’s such a mess and why Ike can’t live in childish naïvety any longer. The pain, once manageable, recently seems to have become unbearable again; Stan’s heart is held together by fraying stitches, set to burst any minute. They’re shakily stitched, keeping the remains of his crumbling, cracking heart bonded.

“He’s always liked being with you. I remember when he’d wanna bring you with us when we’d play out.” He chuckles at the memories, eight year-old Kyle’s eyes shining, begging to let him tag along as he grips onto a tiny Ike’s hand.

“Cartman would always hate it.” Ike’s picking at the last bits of his burger as he reminisces. Stan’s own food has begun to grow cold; he hurriedly picks at them, proud that he manages to finish at least half the bowl.

“Do you miss it?” Ike asks. It’s a vague question - one that weighs on Stan like bricks. He’s shuffling out the booth, pulling on his jacket before he freezes up, mulling over an appropriate answer.

“I think I took it for granted. I’m still sorta hoping that it could happen again. Is that stupid?”

Ike’s zipping his own coat tight to his chin. He pulls on his gloves, glancing up at Stan. He looks like he’s drowning in all the layers, not too different from the first time they saw each other at practice.

“I don’t think it’s stupid.” He mumbles into his coat as Stan’s leaving to pay, so small and quiet that he nearly misses it. He thinks about it as he’s handing the cashier crumpled notes and coins, and thinks about it when he hooks an arm around Ike’s shoulders and leads him out of the door.

They find themselves wandering the streets of South Park, chatting idly and making the most of the dull streets. All the buildings they pass are old, with cracking paint and dirtied windows, and the people they pass seem almost miserable, living their day through the comfort and familiarity of routine.

They take a shortcut through a wooded patch. The path is narrower than Stan remembers, all overgrown with thick brambles and vicious nettles. There’s no Kyle in Stan’s ear anymore, pointing out low-hanging branches or fretting over rustling leaves. There’s just Ike, silent if not spoken to, happy to follow Stan to wherever.

It’s rather unfamiliar, when he’s spent so much of his life obediently following Kyle, bending to Kyle’s will, dedicating his all to Kyle. He’s sort of clueless when it comes to a life without him.

They eventually stray off the path towards Stark’s Pond. The mud is thick around their sneakers and there’s a chill in the air. It’s hardly a pond, more like a small lake, with trees dotted sparsely around the shore and a small wooden dock at the water’s edge.

Stan remembers coming here with Kyle as a child. Throughout the summer months and late autumn, they’d talk excitedly about all they’d do when Stark’s froze over for winter, wait with bated breath in front of the television for the first news reports that even hinted at snow.

“We used to skate here when we were kids. Me and Kyle, I mean.” Stan’s looking out over the pond, a hand shielding his eyes from the pale sun. Ike stands next to him, mouth closed.

“I can’t remember how old we were when we got our first skates. I think I still have mine somewhere. But we’d wait and wait for it to freeze over enough so we could skate on it, and sometimes the others would come, too. But for the most part, it was just us.” He sighs at the memory. If he squints hard enough he can almost see him and Kyle on the ice, stumbling over their skates and holding each other so closely and so tightly that they couldn’t be separated.

“Didn’t you teach Kyle how to skate?” Ike asks. He can’t see what Stan sees.

“We kinda just taught each other. I remember how scared Kyle was to try any sort of jump because of how bumpy the ice was.” Stan wants to cry so badly. He wants to let it all out, scream at the ice that once housed their blades, tell Kyle how much he misses him. He’s a mess, stagnated and plateaued - Stan feels like his life came to a halt on that day all those years ago. That without Kyle, his world can’t turn anymore.

He can’t cry. His eyes are dry, and he can’t cry in front of Ike. He presses his lips together and trains his eyes on the small, slow waves.

“Does Kyle miss me?” Eyes filled with desperation, he turns to Ike.

“I… I don’t know. I don't know, Stan.” Ike’s gaze falls shamefully to his muddied shoes.

He turns back to face Stark’s. The sun is beginning to set in the horizon, an orange glow tinting the ends of the waves and casting a cold chill over Stan and Ike. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, walking off without a word, leaving Ike to trail behind him. He stops shortly after, the cloud on his mind lifting as he lets the other catch up to him.

“Today’s been nice. We should do this again.” Ike’s eyes seem to illuminate when Stan says this.

“Yeah! I had a good time. I liked it when you paid for my food.” He smirks as Stan gasps, giving the shorter boy a playful shove. They’re laughing, and everything is okay for a moment. The sun is setting, they’re on their way home, passing identical, boring gardens as the light around them grows dimmer.

Stan doesn’t seem to register that he’s taking Ike home, until he’s stood on the Broflovskis’ doorstep and Ike is patting his pockets down for his door key. Before he can find it, the door opens, revealing a disheveled, bedheaded Kyle. His dull eyes are rimmed with red and his sweater is wrinkled - they widen upon seeing Stan and Ike in front of him.

“Hi.” Ike’s at a loss for words, “I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t bother,” Kyle smiles, albeit obviously forced, “Seriously, you didn’t do anything.” He opens the door a little wider. Ike ducks under his arm and into the hallway, waving goodbye to Stan as he kicks off his shoes.

Neither of them want to make the move to leave. Kyle looks Stan up and down awkwardly, Stan smiling sweetly, hoping it’s all enough. His hair is sticking out in every direction, much more untamed than usual. It isn’t as fiery as it used to be.

“Did you need something?” The way Kyle speaks seems practiced, rehearsed meticulously in front of a mirror. Stan pulls his hands from his pocket, fiddling with a loose stitch on his jacket.

“No! Just wanted to say, um, hi. Ike said you weren’t feeling the best. Get well soon, dude.” He’s still smiling, despite how Kyle’s face crumples momentarily, despite how red his cheeks flush at the concern.

“What did he tell you?” It’s immediately defensive. Kyle wraps a careful arm around his middle.

“Huh? That you’re like, not feeling it today?” Stan hopes he’s not playing it too dumb. Only Kyle’s aware of how deep his honesty runs. There’s so many things he’s doing, thinking, that he knows only Kyle can comprehend about him. He feels so exposed despite the layers and walls precariously built between them.

“We had a good time. It sucks you couldn’t come. We would’ve liked it if you could’ve.” Stan sees Kyle blanch and recoil, the hand across his middle tightening around a fistful of sweater. Stan tilts his head slightly, hesitant to show any sort of outward reaction.

He doesn’t recognise this Kyle at all.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.” Kyle’s lips are tightly sealed once again. His green eyes are trained firmly on the ground. The light surrounding them is dying quicker with each passing second; the lamp in the hall is illuminating Kyle’s hair, giving it an almost false, halo-like look to it. It frames Kyle’s face, and Stan can’t help but think how good he looks despite the cutting words and judging stares.

“Doing what?” Stan’s tone is fully innocent, almost pleading, pushing for the answer nobody but Kyle knows.

“This.” With a cracking, shaking tone Kyle shuts the door, leaving Stan shrouded in darkness.

He feels like he’s being run in circles. He’s no closer to an answer. His guilty conscience seems to only grow after every conversation, every syllable weighing on his mind and crushing his hope just a little more every time. Stan clutches at his head as he backs off the doorstep, down the driveway, and begins the lonely trek home under the gaze of an obstructed moon. Somewhere, beyond the whirlwind of worrying words in Stan’s head, he sees this as progress. Like he’s gotten past the opponent’s defence in the heat of a match.

He can only hope his time to score is coming soon.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks crawl along painfully for Stan. He’s kept busy with a never ending flood of school assignments, some that he knows he could pour his heart into, but finds he just can’t seem to get the words from pen to paper. Kenny shares his pain; between hockey and his over-demanding, underpaying job, he finds his own grades barely staying afloat. Stan can at least pride himself on the fact that, for the first time in a long time, he’s passing, and he’s passing without Kyle’s tutelage. It stings slightly to think about, but it’s nothing compared to the great sense of accomplishment he feels upon receiving eighties instead of forties.

He’s still under Randy’s eagle-eyed scrutiny. As his father rots and slums on the couch Stan stares wistfully at his guitar, wishing for nothing more than to be able to play it. He doesn’t dare risk it. Not when the wounds of the last abuse hurl are so fresh. He keeps his head low, eats his food, does his schoolwork, plays his hockey, and he doesn’t speak a word out of line. It’s the way Randy likes it.

He doesn’t see much of Kyle, other than in fleeting, stony glares, and in hushed words passed on from Ike. After Shelley brought him to the rink in time for the figure skaters’ practice, Stan had to beg Sharon to drop him off earlier. He’s immediately disappointed - Craig is scarily eager to deliver the news that Kyle is out of commission while he recovers. She says it with a sly, smug smile that Stan quickly decides he does not like at all.

Stan changes in the extra time that he has before his own practice starts. He then resorts to wandering around the rink, chatting amiably with the staff, killing off the two hours he has spare before any real fun starts.

While Kyle isn’t skating, he drops Ike off at hockey practice times instead of figure skating times. He assumes his regular position in the stands - textbook in his lap, glasses on his nose, eyes focused anywhere that isn’t on Stan. It’s all too quiet, all too lonely, like an isolated island leagues away from anyone else.

Stan has taken to seating himself close to Kyle while his team changes. He’ll try to exchange small talk; Kyle only offering irritated, one-word answers to his questions. Over the passing weeks, they seem to grow only slightly in length, Kyle apparently underestimating his conversational skills and cutting himself off before Stan can begin to truly push. One day, amidst the thick tension, Stan takes a brave shot in the dark.

“It’s Halloween this weekend. I think Cartman mentioned a party. Would you wanna come with me?” It’s a bold statement, settling like a fog on Kyle’s conscience, and falling like a weight on Stan’s own afterthoughts.

“Why would you want that? You’d have so much more fun without me.” Kyle replies curtly, closing his textbook and lifting his head.

Stan takes the risky move to shift closer to Kyle. There’s only an armrest separating them now. Stan has an arm resting around the back of Kyle’s seat, while their knees knock together awkwardly with the proximity.

“Cause it’d be fun?” Stan tilts his head, like it’s an obvious answer. “And it’d be nice to have someone I know there.”

“You know the hockey team. You know practically everyone in town. There’s nothing special about me being there. Cartman would hate me being there, anyway, you know that.”

“Cartman doesn’t need to know. We can just have fun together.”

“I don’t even drink. I’m a massive vibe killer, Marsh.” Kyle’s cheeks are blooming red, now.

“That literally doesn’t bother me. We’d make it fun. Raise the fucking roof, you know?!” Stan laughs as he says it, and leans in closer to Kyle. The other flinches away, paling. Stan stops himself before pulling back, sort of ashamedly.

“I’m not going. Sorry, I guess.” But he doesn’t sound sorry at all. Kyle turns his attention back to his textbook. He nudges his glasses back up his nose with a trembling hand.

“Your practice is starting. You don’t wanna miss it, Captain.” He practically spits out the title, as if it’s scathing his tongue.

“Uh, yeah. See you around?” Stan speaks uneasily as he moves from his seat, backing towards the staircase at the end of the row.

Kyle doesn’t gratify him with a response.

Stan doesn’t go to the party; instead he nurses the worn strings of his guitar, curled up in the corner of his room as his parents scream at each other underneath the floorboards.

Today, Stan’s hand ghosts over the phone. It trembles slightly, fingertips barely grazing the plastic exterior before he pulls back.

He takes a shaky exhale.

At seventeen years old, Stan’s sure the least of his worries would be a phone call. Yet he finds his stomach is in knots as he glances back to Sharon, leaning against the bannister with an expectant look painted all over her features.

Randy is not here. It’s a rare occasion, in which he has managed to leave the house. It’s unspoken, but the both of them know that he will not be home tonight.

“Mom, I can’t do this.” Stan’s shaking his head. Sharon rolls her eyes.

It’s not malicious. It never has been. Sharon will cast tired facial expressions and mutter prayers under her breath, but Stan always knows she means nothing of it. She is love itself, reborn into such a small, yet strong woman.

He’s almost a head taller than her, now. She’s all the same, yet so different from when he was a child, clinging to his mother’s hand for guidance. Now, he bends down to hug her, to rest his head on her shoulder. Stan’s arms easily encompass hers. Sharon will grip tightly onto his shirts, as if she doesn’t want to let her little boy go.

“Of course you can. It’s a nice gesture. God knows you need some to make up for the state of your bedroom.”

Stan scowls at her.

“It’s not that bad. I know where everything is.”

“You know where your guitar and skates are, Stanley. Not where your clean laundry is, or even your school bag. You can never find your—“

“Do you want me to call him or not?!” Stan cuts in, cheeks tinged red. Sharon lifts up a hand to mask her chuckles.

“It would be nice if you called before you graduate.”

Stan’s frown deepens. He scoops up the phone, lodging it between his ear and shoulder as he eyes his mother up. Jittering nervously, he punches in the phone number, biting at a piece of loose skin on his lip. Stan is restless, and wants this to be over more than anything. Yet he’s so weak to his mother’s wishes, because he knows the guilt would eat him alive if he went against someone so important to him.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s that he’s so afraid that one wrong move would shatter her like porcelain; his father’s torrent abuse has been surely deepening the cracks in her skin for years now. Stan’s afraid of becoming those same hands, dropping her repeatedly with no care for how fragile she is.

The phone dials, each ring dragging out painfully and sending Stan’s heart jumping. Sharon watches from her place at the bannister. The air feels so thick, like if Stan were to inhale, he’d only be left choking. He wouldn’t be able to talk—

“Hello? This is Sheila speaking.”

“Hello!” Stan forces out, all too quickly. He can’t decide if this is worse than Kyle, or even Gerald answering the phone. He can hear her disapproval through the crackling static.

“Stanley? It’s lovely to hear from you! It’s been so long!” Even with a phone line separating them, Stan can still place all of the Jersey-taught inflections in her voice and accent, and has to shy away from the phone slightly to save his eardrums from her overpowering volume. Before Stan can even speak, she begins again.

“We’re having dinner right now, did you want to speak to Kyle? You’ll have to call later.” He hears something muffled in the background. Something akin to the dull thud of a glass being slammed on the table.

“I mean, yeah, it kinda involves him? But you can just pass it on!” Stan rubs the back of his neck. His eyes wander over to Sharon. Her sly smile says more than anything. He pouts at her, before turning his attention back to the phone.

“Well, you know, since Kyle’s been hurt and all, do you want my Mom to bring Ike to practice? She can drop him off too! It’d be nothing, she drives me and everything, so—“

“Oh, that’d be wonderful, Stanley! You’re just like your mother, so kind!” Stan beams at that. He shoots a thumbs up at Sharon, who smiles widely in return.

“I keep telling him, that boy, he needs to stop driving if he’s going to heal! But oy, our Kyle is so stubborn. Can’t ever take a break!” There’s more unintelligible sounds in the background.

Sheila covers the receiver for a moment. There’s mumbled speaking, Stan waiting patiently at the other end, before she returns.

“You’re going to have to give me a moment, Stanley, I’m sorry. Kyle’s being incredibly difficult.” Her tone sounds targeted. More muffled arguing, and then the sound of the receiver being handed over to somebody else.

“You know I drive Ike to practice.” Kyle’s voice, so unexpected, is coming through the line. Stan clutches the phone closer to his ear in a vice-grip. Kyle sounds like a petulant child, on the verge of throwing a tantrum.

“But I just thought—“

“No. Don’t call again.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” And then he’s hanging up, effectively cutting the line. Stan’s frozen in shock. The receiver still hangs at his ear. Sharon approaches him, coaxing it away from him and returning it to its place. She’s quick to pull him into a secure hug.

“I don’t fucking get it, Mom.”

“Maybe it’s all about understanding where Kyle is coming from. You’re clearly missing something here, Stanley.”

“I already told you, he’s impossible to talk to! He hates my guts! Like, how does that even happen? I don’t know what I did.”

Sharon tightens her arms around him.

“You might not have done anything intentionally. It may not have been anything at all. This is why it’s important to find out Kyle’s side of the story.” Stan wonders when Sharon got so good at advice, because he knows for a fact that she does not listen to any of her own. Her struggle with Randy is daily, and Stan contemplates, for just a moment, if their marriage could be salvaged with a long talk.

She makes it sound so easy. Like in her experience, it worked, and she’s not trapped within a loveless marriage.

Stan opts not to say anything to her. He knows the subject is highly touchy, not just for Sharon, but for himself as well. He clutches onto the back of her sweater, relishing in her warmth, and her motherly embrace.

“I guess. I must’ve done something, though. Why else would he be so pissed?” He’s hiding himself away from the world, from Kyle’s horrid accusations and burning fingers. Obscuring himself within his mother’s arms, safe from it all.

“Well, you know you want to make everything right. To me, that’s a big thing. Forgiving yourself for your past mistakes is very important, Stanley.”

“You’re my mom. You’re meant to say this stuff.” Stan buries his face further into Sharon’s shoulder with a groan.

“I’m saying it because I believe you’re a good person. You’re a good son and a good friend. You remember what you got told about being kinder to yourself, right? Cutting yourself slack instead of making yourself sad?”

Stan hums hesitantly.

“It’s different, though. It’s Kyle.”

“Why is it different?” Sharon gently pushes.

“Kyle’s like, everything. He’s my best friend. Sometimes I feel like I can’t cope with the fact I’ve hurt him like this.” Stan is reaching into the deepest, most dark corners of his mind, grasping for the secrets he’s kept locked away for so long. He’s never told this to anyone. Not even Kenny.

“It hurts, Mom,” he confesses painfully, “It really hurts.”

“You’re strong, though, aren’t you? You smile and you try to be the bigger person. Don’t let it shake you.” Stan has many doubts about this advice.

“I guess.” he hesitantly agrees. They part, Stan’s eyes falling to the matted carpet, Sharon’s loving gaze focused on her son.

“You know I love you a lot, Stanley.” he hums in response.

“I love you, too.”

Sharon smiles, giving Stan’s hair a quick muss.

“We’re going to have to take you for a haircut soon, champ.” she remarks, combing her long fingers through Stan’s hair. It’s reaching shoulder-length; shorter on the top, yet still long enough to brush against his eyelids.

“No, I like it like this. Maybe I’ll make Kyle like me again with my cool hair.”

“You have a borderline mullet, Stanley.” she says, not unkindly, but enough to bring a pout to Stan’s face.

“It looks cool.” Stan crosses his arms across his chest. He’s unable to mask his embarrassed smile around Sharon. Not when she knows him inside out, knows almost all his hidden secrets, knows the perfect remedies for his sadness.

“Come on, you need to clean up for dinner. You have practice later, don’t you?” Stan nods.

“Mhm. Think the new coach is coming today. I hope he likes us.”

That evening, Stan enters practice with light shoulders and a clear head. He’s early, as per his new routine. He’s fast in switching his street clothes out for his kit, dumping his stick, helmet, and other accessories on a nearby bench once he’s left the quiet changing room.

As he approaches the rink, a flaming blur passes him, gliding over the ice with careful precision. Stan lights up. He positions himself at the barrier, leaning over it with a newfound childish excitement.

He believes it’s truly a privilege to be able to watch Kyle skate, even more so after being faced with such a painful wait. Every turn, every transition, down to the way that Kyle positions his fingers, is so smooth, so elegant. It’s like an intricate dance.

Stan doesn’t stop admiring even when Kyle throws him a daggered look. It’s full of malice, hatred - the kind of mood that Kyle is currently in is made startlingly clear to Stan.

He rests his head in his hands, eyes never able to fully concentrate on just a single element of Kyle’s skating. They widen whenever Kyle spins at incredible speeds, jumps with expert, calculated accuracy, and performs moves in ways he’s never seen Kyle’s body move before.

He remarks how the pain and effort is painted in Kyle’s strained expression. The corners of his mouth are tense, and he winces, swears under his breath when he lands even just a simple jump. He keeps pushing, until Stan can see tears glistening in his eyes.

It’s at that point he glides off the ice, grasping for a bottle of water. He takes shaky gulps, and Stan stays watching, shamelessly. He then reaches for a walking stick, leaning carefully against the wall to the rink entrance. Kyle holds it in a vice grip, his breaths heavy as he struggles to the benches. When he collapses against them, he’s quick to unlace his skates and kick them off. He leans over himself, doubled over, ribcage expanding and contracting with each labored breath he takes.

For once, Stan doesn’t approach him. He fears that after their earlier exchange on the phone, he might have worsened Kyle’s mood exponentially. Today, Kyle is alone, in all his pain.

Stan returns to his belongings. He pulls on his skates and gloves with a troubled expression, going through the routine based on muscle memory alone.

Close by, he finds Ike. He’s filling a water bottle with a bored expression. Stan greets him by capturing him in a playful headlock, Ike screeching and spilling his water over the pair.

“You’re actually a massive dick, Marsh.” Ike says, breathless, smoothing out his messed up hair. Stan is doubled over with laughter, having released Ike, unable to hide his reaction.

“I’ve been told that so many times.” Ike rolls his eyes and turns back to the fountain.

“You excited for the new coach?” he asks, focused on the stream of water flowing into his bottle.

“Yeah. But I don’t know anything about him. What if he’s like, some actual fucking legend?”

“You think they’d do that for South Park’s ice hockey team? Jesus, Stan, the guys weren’t lying when they said you’re fucking stupid.”

“I’m not stupid. I’m just trying to be open minded.” Stan bumps Ike’s shoulder, causing him to spill some of his water. The other mutters a swear under his breath, glaring at Stan.

Ike screws on his bottle lid as Stan pulls on his helmet, the metal cage up and keeping his face clear. In his hand he carries his stick and mouth guard. Ike follows, but opts to shove in his guard and keep the cage down.

They’re laughing as they approach the rink. Kyle is so far out of Stan’s mind. The others are on the court already, huddled around their coach, and another man. He’s taller, arms folded, and his expression is hardened. There’s no colour to be seen on him. It’s all grey hair, grey eyes - he’s like a dull, monochrome statue. It reminds Stan of the blank-faced sculptures he’s seen in museums.

The coach sees Ike and Stan, clearly late, joining the group. Stan offers the man a friendly wave. He doesn’t react. He simply glares, narrowing his eyes and tensing his jaw.

“There’s the captain.” His coach nods in his direction. He gladly returns the smile. “Stan Marsh. You’d do well getting to know him better, he’s known these boys and how they play for years.” The newer man says nothing, just stares him down with judging, cold eyes. Stan hates it. He feels like he’s under a spotlight, being exposed and assessed.

“And this is Ike Broflovski, our newest recruit, and our youngest. He’s only thirteen, so go easy on him.” At the mention of his friend, all eyes turn to Ike - Stan included. Even the new coach seems to turn sharply upon hearing his name. Stan has to hold in a sharp gasp at what he sees, swallowing down any words he might have been capable of verbalising.

Ike is white under his helmet. He’s staring up at this man, mouth agape and eyes wide in terror. Then Stan blinks, and Ike’s somewhat okay again, inhaling deeply. Nobody seems to have noticed.

The new coach hasn’t said a word, yet. The rest of the guys are silent, even Cartman. Stan decides he needs to take some kind of initiative - despite everything in him telling him not to.

He steps forwards, extending his gloved hand.

“I know Coach already said, but I’m Stan. Stan Marsh. I’m the captain. We’re looking forward to working with you, man.” He smiles, and it’s so genuine, every authentic part of Stan that makes him who he is being pushed into the light. The coach doesn’t return the handshake.

“I just hope you take this game seriously. You seem far too relaxed already.” His voice is stern, filled with far too much malice for Stan to be oblivious too.

“Oh, I-I do.” Stan stumbles over his words, growing quieter. His coach, all warm smiles and bright eyes, an almost complete opposite to the newer man, claps him on the back.

“Our Stan’s the most loyal player you’ll meet.” Stan swells with pride, but he’s quickly deflated upon seeing the assistant coach’s disapproving stare. He doesn’t even know this guy’s name. He’s sure he doesn’t need to know it to dislike him.

“Right, I’m off.” Their coach doesn’t seem to miss Ike’s desperate expression, “I’ll be back for your next practice. I got stuff to sort for your next game. Coach Vaughn’ll be going through your drills and practice today. Work hard, boys.”

Their coach departs. The team watch him leave with empty expressions. Ike quivers fearfully, frozen in place. Stan doesn’t dare ask him what’s wrong.

He decides firmly that this new coach’s name fits him. In a morbid, horrifying way, Stan feels his skin crawl upon hearing it. It reminds him of returning home, to a drunk Randy, ready to throw angered punches and ruin the family he swore to be so dedicated to.

Stan looks up to the stands. He immediately stills when his eyes land on Kyle.

His hands are clasped over his mouth. Even from their long distance apart, Stan can see all-so-clearly that Kyle looks nauseous. Terrified.

It’s a sickening sight. Stan feels paralysed.

Kyle grasps for his walking stick in the next moment. Then he’s struggling down the stairs, and out the door. Stan swears he hears a sob amidst it all. Only Ike seems to be watching him leave alongside Stan, scared stiff.

In that instant, Vaughn appears behind them. He looms over them, drawing up to his full size. Stan isn’t the tallest seventeen year-old. Ike is barely thirteen.

“When you two are finally able to focus on practice, we’ll start running drills.” Vaughn chooses his words carefully. They’re all spoken with hurtful, unbothered intent.

“Respectfully, Sir, we haven’t warmed up. You see, I usually take the guys through—” Stan’s cut off with almost no hesitation.

“You boys think you’re going to win with this attitude?” Vaughn barks. His voice echoes painfully within the rink. “Your Captain can’t even get your warmups organised. You should be coming to practice on time, prepared, and ready to start drills immediately!” Stan winces at his tone. His heart is racing. He shoves in his mouth guard and lowers his helmet visor, anticipating the next sentence.

“We’ll be practicing two on one. Offensive passing.” It’s a simple drill, in theory. Yet Stan still feels like he can’t trust it just yet.

“You’ll work with the positions I give you.” Vaughn says. He starts pointing out vague spots on the rink, directing the boys to them.

“McCormick, there. Black, far left. Marsh, here. Broflovski, there.” Ike’s eyes widen. The position he’s assigned is dangerous for someone of his stature, considering who he’s facing as his nearest opponents, and anyone can see it. Especially when faced against seasoned players. He knows for a fact that Eric Cartman will not hold back in anything. Ike opens his mouth in rebuttal, before he’s immediately shut down.

“I don’t want to hear a damn word. You’re all already disappointing me.”

Stan sees the slump in Ike’s shoulders. He hears how Vaughn throws poisonous words at him throughout the duration of the drill, watches in horror as Cartman shoulder checks Ike one too many times and how it goes intentionally ignored.

He can’t do anything to stop it. This has been made plainly clear since Vaughn’s arrival.

Cartman barrels into Ike once more, much too hard, sending him sprawling to the ice. He cries out, in obvious pain. Everybody simply stops and stares. The puck heading towards Ike glides to a halt, but nobody really cares for it anymore.

“Absolutely appalling performance, Broflovski! And you think you have a place on this team?” Ike struggles to his feet. His teeth are gritted and he’s holding back affronted tears.

“Fuck this.” Ike spits. He throws his stick to the ice, the clatter of it echoing in the silent room. Nobody says a word.

He storms off the rink. Stan’s glued to the spot, heart racing, powerless to do anything to stop this.

There’s a door slamming in the distance. Stan jumps. He doesn’t feel like a good captain, at all. Coach Vaughn scoffs, muttering something under his breath.

“Sir, that wasn’t fair. Ike’s smaller than all of us.” Kenny protests weakly, but he’s easily shut down.

“It’s all or nothing. No bullshit will cut it with me. Not if you want to make a name for yourself.” Vaughn’s words are vile. It’s clear there’s nothing but stone in place of his heart.

The other boys lower their heads. Yet Stan remains defiant, opening his mouth to speak.

“McCormick’s right. As Captain, I think we all need to do what we can to help out Ike—”

“Don’t butt in here, you.” Vaughn spits. His attention turns to Stan, who finds himself backing away under all of his cowing. His stomach twists recalling the times he’s made this exact, cowardly move in the presence of his father.

“You were out there skating like you're drunk. You sure you haven’t been drinking A complete mess, and you're supposed to be their captain?” he sneers. Stan stiffens. Horrified gasps fill the space around him. He swears he hears Cartman mutter “Holy shit…”.

“Sir, please don’t say that about me.” Stan attempts to sound firm, but it comes out feebly. He’s been reduced to nothing within a smattering of words. “I’ll take any criticism, really, just nothing like that. Please.”

“Save it. I don’t care.”

“Really, that was too far.” Tolkien pipes up, Kenny nodding vigorously in agreement. Characteristically, Cartman and Clyde remain silent; the latter eyeing up the exit, the former unsuccessfully attempting to mask snide snickers.

“If you can’t take it, then get out. I don’t have time to waste on drunks who think they can be something without putting in the effort to work.”

Stan’s lightheaded as he skates off the ice. He doesn’t hear Kenny yelling after him, Vaughn snapping at him to shut up; he throws his stick and helmet down before stumbling to the boys’ bathroom.

He stills when he enters the hall. His destination lies dead ahead, blocked by two people. Kyle is crumpled against the wall, tugging at his hair, Ike kneeling cluelessly over his older brother. He looks panicked, completely out of his depth. The pair don’t notice Stan.

“Kyle, you need to calm down. I-I know it’s hard, but you have to.” It’s Ike’s voice, desperate and pleading, breaking through the cries.

“I can’t do it…” Kyle’s words are so broken. He sounds like he’s in pieces. Ruined.

“Please, you’ve just gotta. You’re scaring me, I don’t know what to do.” Ike begs. Kyle only cries harder.

“I’m sorry…” it sounds so fragile, so unlike Kyle that it takes all restraint for Stan to not kneel down next to the pair there and then.

“You know what he did, Ike. He’s gonna fucking do that to you. And Stan. And every single one of those guys out there. He doesn’t give a shit about what he does to get to the top. He’s gonna fucking kill you.”

“This is why you need to calm down. He won’t go that far. ‘Cause you’re not gonna let him.” Kyle’s terrified cries resume.

“No, no, no, no! No fucking way!” There’s so much desperation within Kyle’s beseeching, how he reaches to clutch at Ike’s jersey, eyes wide in terror.

“Kyle, just stop! You’re gonna hurt yourself! Let go of me!” It’s Ike’s turn to break, his bottom lip trembling as he attempts weakly to rip himself free of Kyle’s vice grip.

“We can do it together, I promise, we’ll do something. I hate seeing you like this.” Kyle releases his brother shakily. He curls up into a shameful ball, burying his head into his knees as his body wracks with sobs.

“I can’t.” His voice is muffled. Ike embraces him, using his brother’s hair as a sort of uncomfortable pillow. The whole time they’re oblivious to Stan’s presence. He backs out of the hallway, already sort of feeling guilty at overhearing the conversation.

Stan spends what time he has left of practice in the changing rooms. He peels off his kit, taking the time to pack everything into his bag carefully, and to fold what parts of it he can. All he can picture in his mind is Kyle’s curled up figure, so hopeless and scared. It haunts him. Stan can’t shake the image from his head, no matter how many times he smooths out the creases in his jersey or wipes down his blades.

He returns to the hallway to collect his helmet and stick, arching his neck around the corner to check for Kyle and Ike. He intakes a sharp breath as he glances around.

They’re both nowhere to be seen. It calms Stan a little as he shoves his helmet into his bag and slings it over his shoulder. It means that, hopefully, Kyle is safe.

It’s eerily silent in the building. No staff, no people at all. It’s unnerving, how nobody is around to bear witness to Vaughn’s torrent words, to Kyle’s anguished sobbing. It’s almost as if they don’t care.

Stan avoids the rink as he makes his escape to the exit. Frost immediately settles in his bones as he steps outside, the last embers of dying sun just barely visible over the mountains. He dumps his bag and stick on the ground, against the wall, and perches atop it.

He feels like he waits there forever. The night cold is quick to settle in; his mom has to be coming soon.

Stan hears the doors to the rink slide open. He lifts his head, shooting out of his slump upon seeing Kyle and Ike. The former is shakily leaning against his stick, the latter still in his hockey kit.

The pair lock eyes. Kyle mumbles something to Ike, who nods, before walking towards his brother’s car. Stan furrows his eyebrows. Once he registers that Kyle is walking towards him, he stands up, clumsily adjusting his shirt and running a nervous hand through his hair.

“You need to quit.” Kyle’s tone is short, and his words tumble out of his mouth all too quickly. There’s desperation peeking into it. He’s even speaking before he’s slowed his approach, needing to get the words out.

Kyle leans up against his walking stick. His eyes are swollen and ringed with red. His whole appearance is unkempt, down to his untied boot laces. He seems weaker, more frangible, even.

“What?” Stan tilts his head. Kyle looks skittish, like a cat caught in headlights.

“Like, as in hockey. You can’t put yourself through this.”

“I don’t get it. You want me to quit hockey?” Stan gapes at Kyle. He’s struggling for words, reduced to a stuttering mess in front of Stan’s fuller, straighter figure.

“Yes!” He almost screams it, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“I can’t, Kyle. This is all I have. You don’t fucking get it.” Kyle flinches, taking a step backwards as Stan’s expression contorts.

“But, I-”

“Is this because of Ike? You’re still mad he wants to hang out with me? Get a fucking grip, Kyle! I’m not letting you fuck up my career because of some retarded grudge you have against me!” Stan’s gesturing wildly, pointing accusing fingers at his former best friend. The wind is picking up, and he can see the faintest flakes of snow beginning to cloud his vision.

“I-No, it’s not that at all…” Kyle bows his head, before it snaps up again in an instant. “I-I’m not trying to fucking sabotage you! Take that back!”

Blinding headlights fill the space between them, signifying Sharon’s arrival. The pair of them take no notice, just for a fleeting moment. All of Kyle’s hopelessness is illuminated, lit up for Stan to see, for Stan to ignore.

“Dude, I don’t get it! Don’t just fucking leave me and then come back years later to beg me to drop the only thing that’s gonna save me. You’re seriously fucked up, Kyle. What the hell is wrong with you?!” Stan picks up his bag and stalks off, climbing into the car. There’s anger radiating off him, so much so that even Sharon throws him a concerned glance.

“Stanley? Did something happen?” She’s met with only the faint hum of the engine and the scraping of windscreen wipers. Stan turns away from her. He folds his arms over his chest, trembling with anger.

Kyle watches on in despair as the car pulls out of the parking lot.

He’s alone, once more, of his own volition. He doesn't know if he can take it anymore.

Chapter Text

“You’re seriously fucked up, Kyle. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“You said that? Jesus, Stan, that’s fucking cold, even for you.” They’re sitting in a crowded school bus, on their way home. The sunlight peeks in through grimy windows, watery orange rays that are bright enough to make Stan squint under the brim of his hat, but not enough to warm him up. Kenny’s resting his chin atop his backpack, eyes wandering worriedly towards his friend. Stan stares out of the window, avoidant, expression stony.

His coat is zipped up to his chin and his arms are folded defiantly across his chest. A subtle chill is settled in the school bus, seeping its way deep into Stan’s bones. He pulls his arms closer around him and turns slightly to face the window. People chatter obliviously around the pair. They don’t know their problems. They most likely wouldn’t care.

“Whatever. What makes him think he can do that to me? Like, I know I haven’t been great. But why drag hockey into it?” There's a bite in his tone, hurt in his eyes, bitterness in his heart.

It’s been days since the argument in the parking lot. Stan has let his hurt brew, spilling over after countless nudges from Kenny for anything, anything he dares confess to his friend. There are details he hasn’t let slip, ones he feels would ruin him as a Captain. Like how Ike has been radio silent, not picking up his calls, not knocking on his door with flimsy excuses to tour the town. The shame of losing both Broflovski’s, to his own selfishness, no less, is almost too much for Stan to bear.

“Dude, that’s just not like Kyle at all. Did you even ask him what he meant?” Kenny inquires, pulling up the hood of his parka to shield his already-red ears from the cold. It’s a look not too dissimilar from when they were eight and tripping over their shoelaces, in clothes much too big for them and hearts set to burst from their Terrance and Phillip t-shirts.

Not too dissimilar from when Cartman would catch Kyle staring at the back of Stan’s head for a second too long and call him names, when they’d all laugh about it and the secret looks and touches didn't quite matter so much. From when Kenny began to wear no hood at all, and when said secret looks seemed to mean so much more and occur so much less.

“Yes.” Stan says curtly, like he’s had to state it a million times over, “I told you, he wants me to quit. No fucking doubt he’ll pull something to get me kicked off the team.”

“Oh, yeah, no doubt.” Craig’s nasally voice comes floating from the row behind them, “Were you not listening when I told you he used bribes? No fucking way was he ever good enough to go to Regionals. Broflovski’s sketchy.”

“Fuck off, Tucker.” Kenny twists in his seat to face her. Stan stays unmoving, but the smirk he knows is coating Craig’s face is ever present in his head. “Where’d you even hear that from, anyway, Cartman? You’re a fucking liar.”

Craig is standing, leaning over the back of the seat to meet Kenny’s eyes. Presumably, Tweek is seated next to her. Her looming presence is suffocating, and annoying; her input is the last thing that Stan wants to hear right now.

“Can you both just fucking shut up?” Stan’s tone is loud and firm. Both of them fall silent as they turn to face him, a little surprised at his outburst.

Stan sometimes finds himself being surprised at his own fits of anger, too.

“Whatever.” Craig falls back into her seat. Tweek jumps a little at the sudden movement but makes no attempt to join the conversation.

The bus slows to a halt. A few students begin to stand, grabbing their bags and shuffling down the aisle. Craig is one of them, reaching for Tweek’s hand in the process.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Marsh. Broflovski’s bad news.” She pulls Tweek behind her as she makes her way towards the doors.

Stan scowls, lifting a hand to flip off Craig. “Could say the same about you.” He’s muttering foul insults under his breath, face like thunder.

“Calm the hell down. Why are you letting her get to you?” Kenny hisses, knocking Stan’s shoulder with his own. It’s rough, a sharp bump, but it seems to raise Stan from his slump.

“God, I don’t fucking know, Kenny. Maybe it’s that my friend is a fucking asshole, and that I don’t actually know him at all. Who the fuck did I waste all those years on?” He buries his head into his hands, letting out a frustrated groan.

“Not really a waste, dude. You guys were so close. Like, literally attached at the hip.” Kenny’s reminiscing seems to make Stan curl further in upon himself, “You know what people used to say to me, in middle school?” He pauses for a moment as Stan’s shoulders heave, like he’s trying not to let anything more show. Like if he does, it’ll shatter a facade he wishes he doesn’t have to acknowledge.

“Girlfriends I had, or just people sat next to me in class, Stan, you know what they’d say? Jeez, Ken, I wish you’d look at me the way Kyle looks at Stan. I wish I had what they had. It’s like they know each other better than anyone.”

Stan slowly raises his head. He doesn’t look at Kenny, nor does he look out of the window. He stares straight ahead, at the pattern of stains coating the seat in front of him, with eyes so dead and so uncharacteristic of him.

“You get what I’m saying? None of it was a waste, Stan. Not when you meant that much to each other. Not when you still do, even.”

“Whatever. I’m done with it all, now. Kyle’s made it obvious he just wants to fuck up my career, so I’m not gonna try making friends anymore.” Kenny baulks for a moment, his expression rotating through a range of emotions within a moment.

“Jesus, fuck, Stan, really?!” Stan nods in affirmation, eyes still fixated on the seat in front of him, “You sure that’s the best thing to do?”

“Well, yeah. It wouldn’t mean anything if I just tried to force it. Kyle’s feelings on it all are still a thing, you know.” he pauses for a moment, “I’m not gonna be a dick about it, though. We’re just not friends anymore.”

“Not friends.” Kenny echoes, though the words sound unsure and unfamiliar on his tongue. It’s not a new concept to Stan, but vocalising it after years of hopeful affirmations, and years of waiting, he finds it to be alien to him, too.

Stan knows it’s bordering on an empty declaration. That stopping caring for Kyle, all of it, it’s a difficult vow to keep up. Stan’s unsure, regardless of how hard he tries, if he’ll ever truly be able to cut himself free of Kyle. No matter how much they hurt each other, it’s the same as always; they gravitate back to one another out of the sheer need for each others’ presence in their lives. Kyle is Stan’s, albeit absent, rock - he finds himself slightly scared at the prospect of accepting a future without him.

The bus slows once more. Stan glances out of the dusty window, seeing a lone bus stop sign amidst the trees. The grass around it is dead and slightly overgrown, soggy from the snow that’s been trying to settle for the last few days. It’s collected in small, mushy piles against the curb, marking where the bus had made its daily rounds with tyre tracks embedded into the slush.

Stan and Kenny clamber down the steps. They hiss at the sudden, biting wind, and the former is quick to shove his hands deep into his pockets.

“They keep saying on the radio we’re meant to get a shitton of snow, soon.” Stan says, kicking at the grey snow. He walks at the edge of the road while Kenny bats his way through brown weeds, cursing South Park’s lack of budget for at least somewhat of a sidewalk at their bus stop.

“Forreal? Ah, fuck.” Kenny’s voice drops, a sigh escaping him. Stan’s all too familiar with how tough the harsh Colorado winters are for Kenny and all of the McCormick family.

“You know you can stay at mine if you need. Karen can probably take Shelley’s bed, too, when she’s with her boyfriend. I think we’ll have heating. Well, I hope we will.” Stan kicks at another pile of snow. It breaks apart atop his shoe, melting into the canvas and causing him to shriek. Kenny snorts, breaking out into fits of laughter - much to Stan’s disdain. He reaches down, scooping up a handful of wet snow. He grimaces for a moment at the texture, before hopping onto the grass with a sly grin painting his face.

Kenny is fully unsuspecting. He’s doubled over, creasing at his friend’s misfortune. His hood has since fallen from his ears.

Stan grabs for it with his free hand, pulling it back to expose Kenny’s neck. Before he can react, Stan is shoving the slush deep past his shirt neckline, eyes bright with twisted joy. He jumps up with a sharp shout, making a pass at Stan.

“You dick! Oh my God, Stan, I’m gonna kill you.” With those words Stan’s taking off, laughing maniacally as Kenny attempts to close the distance. He bounds down the street, past the corner where he’d melt Shelley’s dolls with Kyle, past the front yard that Kyle had broken Cartman’s nose in, up the hill where Stan and Kenny had attempted a bike race and both ended up flying over their handlebars.

The wind is whistling past Stan’s ears. It bats against the nearly invisible bruises on his soft jawline, and his hair falls into his eyes, obscuring his vision as Kenny easily closes the distance. Stan is fast, almost the fastest on the hockey team, but he’s easily matched by Kenny’s long legs and slender frame, as opposed to Stan’s stronger, yet shorter and stockier figure.

Kenny’s wiping furiously at the back of his neck when the pair slow down. He's grimacing, and pulls a disgusted face when his hand comes back disgustingly wet. Stan is heaving with uncontrollable laughter and with shortness of breath, his round cheeks bright red.

He pulls off his hat. There’s sweat beading where it sat snugly against his forehead, and his hair collects in limp, wet strands across it. Kenny’s barely broken a sweat. He’s still scrubbing away at the offending snow.

“See you at practice?” Stan manages to force out between snickers. The sun is casting golden rays across South Park now, and they catch the strands of Kenny’s hair. The blond hair shines in the sun, almost forming a halo around his face.

“Yeah, sure, you’ll be fucking lucky to make it that far. Expect a damn skate to the head tonight.” Kenny grumbles. He’s smiling, though, edging closer to Stan and looping an arm around his shoulders.

“You love me, really.” Stan sighs softly, leaning into his taller friend.

“I guess.” For a moment they stand together, relishing in each others’ warmth and comfort.

Stan thinks he’s truly grateful to call Kenny his friend. They’re almost like brothers - he supposes that the only thing keeping them from officially being so is the lack of shared blood. He doesn’t really know where he’d be without him, both on the ice and off.

“Shit!” Kenny suddenly exclaims. He breaks away from Stan, barrelling down the deserted streets back in the direction of town, “Shit, shit! I’m gonna be fucking late for work. See you later!” He’s waving as he sprints, and Stan waves back, a little taken aback at the sudden departure.

With Kenny’s heavy footsteps fast fading, Stan begins his journey home.

He passes Kyle’s house. The yard is pristine, and the windows are all clean, with curtains pinned back neatly behind the glass. He slows when he approaches it, staring wistfully, and the weight of everything seems to come crashing down on him once more. Stan’s stomach is surging and his eyes are filling up - he takes off before he lets it consume him.

Stan’s shoulders feel heavy as he walks up his own weed-infested drive. The curtains are thrown open, an odd sight for the Marsh household, and Shelley’s car is absent. He approaches the door with bated breath, inching it open, waiting, dreading the idea of Randy stirring from another one of his drunken slumbers.

He’s greeted by Sparky. The old dog doesn’t jump or bark. He simply nuzzles against Stan’s jeans, pressing close as he closes the door behind him. He can hear Randy humming some old rock song upstairs.

After being the Marsh family pet for almost ten years now, Sparky has lived to a considerably impressive age. There’s grey flaking his bristly fur, and he moves with none of the excitement he had when Stan was just a boy. Nowadays he hides away in Shelley’s room; Stan’s guitar and Sharon and Randy’s fighting doing nothing to provide him with peaceful elder years.

Stan shirks off his bag in the hall. He notes the time on the clock - his mother isn’t home yet, and he still has hours to go before he needs to leave for practice. Stan knows he has homework. He also knows he’s not going to be doing it.

“You wanna go on a walk?” He reaches for the old lead that’s looped around a coat peg, bending down until he’s at Sparky’s level. The dog cocks his head to the side, tongue lolling out as Stan clips the lead to his collar. He pauses for a moment to scratch behind Sparky’s ears. He smiles softly, briefly recalling memories he thought were lost to time.

He remembers when he was just a boy, playing out in the streets with his friends. There’s one game that sticks out to Stan - he doesn’t recall the name of it, but he can place the thought of him and his mother, sitting under a warm bulb late into the night, crafting an incredible costume a trained warrior would envy.

Stan doesn’t remember what his class was. Ranger, Knight, Paladin - to a seventeen-year-old, they’re all the same. He looks back on those times fondly. Sparky served by his side, and together they were loyal to the High Elf King. Even at eight, nine, and ten years old - he was bound to Kyle and his will in all the universes they could possibly invent within their young minds.

It’s all a little bittersweet, now. Stan’s sure that if he looked hard enough he’d find bits and pieces of his old costume, maybe even character sheets that he and Kyle pored over and wrote a piece of their souls into.

He remembers a quiet, secret moment in Kyle’s backyard, when everyone else had gone home after a tiring battle with the human warriors. He had knelt in front of the King’s throne, Sparky laying next to him, smiling with pride as Kyle had knighted him for his most recent victory.

Next, there had been a golf club, bestowed precariously above each shoulder, words from his King that Stan can’t quite recall, but a kiss to the back of his hand that still burns the back of his eyes anytime he closes them.

Stan used to find himself lying awake at night, holding the marked hand in the other to see if he could replicate Kyle’s gentle grip. He was never successful. His fingers had always been shorter and stubbier, marked with scars of past adventures, whereas Kyle’s were slim and light. His touch had been like a ghost’s, ever-so-gentle, but strong enough to still haunt Stan’s dreams after all these years.

Sparky’s rough tongue licking a strip up Stan’s hand finally brings him back to reality. He blinks, before getting to his feet and opening the door. The sun is blinding, and Stan has to bring an arm to shield his eyes as he steps out the door. Sparky stays close; he’s too old to be straying away, chasing birds and greeting strangers.

The sun is setting fast over the mountains. Sparky pads along, panting, while Stan walks steadily at his side. The walk into town is peaceful - there’s the occasional hum of a car engine, and the squeak of a bus door, but there are hardly any people.

At one point Stan plugs in his headphones. They’re connected to an old iPod he swears he stole from Cartman years prior - probably a part of some revenge scheme that Stan feels no remorse for. He lets the music infest his brain, the bass and rhythm working their way deep into his mind. He hums along to it, timing his steps to the beat.

The next song that comes on is like a punch to the gut. The piano melody begins, and suddenly Stan’s transported back to Kyle’s bed, huddled close to him as they share a pair of headphones and bicker about whatever music they’re listening to. Probably some old alternative rock song of Stan’s that Kyle loved to hate.

"Nobody wants to listen to this shit. Can I put something on now?” Kyle swipes the iPod out of Stan’s grip. He stutters in protest, but as always, he’s weak to Kyle’s will.

“Fine. But no more dissing Beck. He’s the fucking greatest.”

Kyle mutters something dismissively as he punches at the buttons on the iPod. It takes a moment - he’s never really been the obsessive, music-puritan kind of teenager. Eventually, he finds the song he’s looking for.

It’s an old ABBA song. Stan’s sort of surprised that their music appeals to Kyle in the first place. Kyle, who’s so uptight and organised about everything, and who knows exactly what he wants. Kyle, who’s Jewish, and diabetic, who has a little brother and an overbearing mother and the curliest, brightest red hair you’ll ever see in your life.

Kyle, who’s Stan’s best fucking friend in the entire world. Who is with him, right now, eyes closed peacefully, head resting on Stan’s shoulder as he hums along to the lyrics of The Winner Takes It All. His messy ringlets tickle at Stan’s jaw. It’s just them, and Agnetha Fältskog to bear witness to their position on this rainy afternoon.

The moment only lasts around five minutes. Only until one of Stan’s widely hated rock ballads begins to blast in their ears and Kyle stirs with an annoyed groan.

It’s five minutes and a lifetime to Stan.

Stan’s ripping his headphones out and shoving them deep in his pocket alongside the offending iPod. His eyebrows are furrowed and he grasps Sparky’s lead tighter, walking a little faster. He can’t seem to get the song or the memory out of his head.

He doesn’t know why he’s so caught up in these souvenirs of the past. Maybe it’s the knowledge, the painful beginnings of acceptance.

There aren’t going to be any more of these moments.

The realisation leaves a sort of hollow shape in his heart. Stan can only hope that it’ll start to fill itself soon.

Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse comes into view as Stan rounds the corner onto the high street. He’s grateful to see that it’s quiet - the small, wrought iron tables that are placed outside house no customers.

Stan moves towards one away from the door. Just enough so that nobody would bother him, but in the right place to watch people as they pass. He ties Sparky’s lead to the chair leg - the dog staring expectantly at Stan as he gives him a scratch behind the ears. He’s quick to lay down on the concrete and rest his head between his paws, and Stan takes the opportunity to buy a drink for himself.

He enters Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse for the first time in what feels like years. The interior hasn’t changed much - it’s still a small, airy establishment, even though the pictures on the wall have changed and the menu has increased in length.

From behind the counter, Tweek stares coldly at Stan. She’s wiping a mug dry with the end of her apron, but her fixation on Stan remains unwavering. All he can do is offer an awkward smile and pretend to turn back to the menu adorning the wall above Tweek’s messy hair. Stan barely likes coffee in the first place.

“You ordering or what, Marsh?” Tweek snaps, slamming the mug onto the counter. He jumps, attention falling back on Tweek’s fuming stature.

Despite the years that had passed, Tweek has remained relatively the same. There came newfound stability in her treacherous and complex relationship with Craig - always something more, but never quite what people are maybe looking to hear.

Her hair, still, is untamed. It’s cut short and kept out of her eyes with a flimsy headband while working. While her tics have long since calmed down - Stan quietly theorises that Craig has had some involvement in this process - she’s still a complete wildcard. Every conversation Stan has held with her since elementary has taken on a different tone. He’s still unsure as to what she thinks of him to this day. Whether she even trusts him (He knows for a fact that Craig doesn’t like him. Tweek’s opinion probably follows suit).

Truthfully, Stan doesn’t understand how Craig and her gang function. How Tweek and Craig, so antagonistic and moody, made friends in reliable, outgoing Tolkien, Clyde and Jimmy. He supposes people probably said the same about him, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman as kids. So he doesn’t question it more than it’s worth.

“I’m talking to you.” Tweek says again, causing Stan to begin patting down his pockets for his wallet. His fingers close around the iPod for a moment, before he realises his mistake and pulls out his wallet.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll just have a coffee.” Stan pushes a crumpled-up bill towards Tweek. She snatches it up, unfurling and inspecting it in the light before ringing it through the till. She hands over his change, glowering as he pockets it with an almost nervous smile.

“So, how’re things?” Stan asks. Tweek scowls at him before turning to the coffee machine behind her.

“Why do you care? I don’t want you in my business.”

“Christ, fine. I’m only trying to be nice.” Stan rolls his eyes, burying his hands in his pockets. He watches, sort of in admiration, as Tweek works swiftly to make his drink. Her hands are small and well-used in everything she does. Stan recalls someone, he thinks it may have been Tolkien, telling him that Tweek is a decent boxer. He guesses it’s a fitting sport for her.

“I don’t need your kindness. Just fuck off and let me work.” She slams the mug down in front of him and disappears from sight. Stan’s mouth hangs open for a moment, the “thank you” he’d been about to say practically falling out of his mouth. He sighs and picks up his mug, carrying it back to his lonesome table with Sparky.

He almost drops his mug upon seeing Sparky happily basking in attention from Wendy. She’s sitting on the sidewalk, the dog’s head between her hands as she showers him with words of affection. She looks perfect, as always. There’s a bag filled to the brim with books next to her.

“Wow, thought you’d at least be happier to see me.” Stan jokes, but it comes out flatter than he intends.

“Oh, hi, Stan!” Wendy’s a little startled by his sudden arrival. Stan chuckles at how she doesn’t move, too engrossed with Sparky and his paws patting her to properly greet him.

“Your dog’s just the cutest. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I last saw him!” She beams, and all Stan can do is stand there awkwardly, mug in hand as she gives Sparky the attention he wishes he wanted.

“Uh, yeah. He’s pretty cute.” Stan takes his seat, blowing on his drink to cool it. He cradles it between both hands to keep them warm. “Where are you off to with all those books?” he nods at Wendy’s bag.

“Bebe’s. She’s at cheerleading right now, though. We’re meeting here for coffee first.”

“Oh.” Stan doesn’t know why it comes out so dejectedly, “That’ll be nice.”

Maybe it’s that Wendy’s always had Bebe. That their friendship is special, meaning something more to them than anyone else. That when they argue, no matter how messy it is, they always bounce back.

The pair of them are inseparable and have been for years. It’s always been the same. Always Wendy-And-Bebe, just like how it always used to be Stan-And-Kyle and everybody knew it.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Wendy asks. She seems to latch onto how disconnected from the conversation Stan is and moves away from a whining Sparky to sit across the table from him.

“Hockey practice. Dunno after that.” He takes a long sip from his cup and grimaces. Stan doesn’t even like coffee all too much.

“Homework, maybe?” Wendy raises her eyebrows, the beginnings of a sly smile starting to break.

“Yeah, right. I’ll probably just kick back with some music.” Wendy chuckles as Stan grins, and reaches down to pet Sparky again.

“What about Kyle? Will you see him tonight?”

Stan drops his mug to the table. “Dunno. Kinda fucked that one, didn’t I?” he says, staring into the black void of his coffee.

“Oh, Stan.” Wendy’s face contorts, and her hands move to support Stan’s. They’re warm, because why wouldn’t they be, they’re Wendy’s. She’s perfect (she’s not Kyle), she’s amazing in every sense.

“Oh, Stan,” She repeats herself, squeezing at his hands, “It’s that bad?”

“‘M fine. It’s all fine. Just… nothing, Wends. There’s just nothing anymore.” Stan’s eyes are wide and he’s forcing a smile, despite it all, but he can’t make eye contact with Wendy.

She looks a little bewildered. Like she doesn’t really know what to say.

“What do you mean?” It’s not pushy or demanding.

Stan shrugs. He doesn’t really know what he means. He doesn’t know a lot about Kyle, either, or what he’s going to do next.

“Nothing. I promise it’s fine.”

Wendy seems unconvinced. “As long as you’re sure, Stanley.”

There’s a shout from across the street then, that sounds distinctly like Bebe. Wendy’s head turns and then she’s smiling, so fully and so happily. She releases Stan’s hands to wave, and he turns his head too, expression blank.

Bebe’s in her cheerleading uniform, bounding over the road to the pair. Her curls bounce effortlessly off her shoulders, glittering in the last flakes of sunlight. Her whole attire screams unbothered yet classy - Stan dares to dream what it would be like to wake up and be a natural beauty with no effort required.

“Wendy!” At that call, Wendy stands up to greet Bebe, relishing in how the taller girl pulls her close and presses a kiss to her temple. Wendy giggles, and wraps her arms around Bebe’s waist.

Stan averts his eyes. It’s not like he’s jealous, it’s quite the contrary - he feels like what he’s witnessing isn’t for his eyes. What Wendy and Bebe have, it’s not for Stan to be watching.

“Tell Kyle I said hi if you get the chance, will you?” Wendy’s words pull Stan’s attention back towards her, instead of at the dried stains coating the tabletop.

“Sure. Wishful thinking, there, Wends.” He smiles sweetly, and she returns it.

“The debate team misses him. They all want him back.”

“Oh. Not much I can do there, sorry.”

“I know, Stan. Keep safe.” Then she’s disappearing into Tweek Bros. in Bebe’s embrace. Stan offers a somewhat pathetic wave, but she doesn’t see it. He sighs and reaches for Sparky’s lead to untie it from the chair leg - he’s since laid down again after Wendy’s departure.

“C’mon, boy,” he says, tugging gently on the lead to coax Sparky to his feet, “We gotta go. Mom’ll be home now.”

Sparky whines for a moment but is soon to stand up. The sky is losing light fast, a street light clicking on above their heads as they make their way back down the high street. The cold is settling in even quicker, too - it makes Stan wish he liked coffee. His drink still sits half-empty on the table. It’s probably stone-cold by now.

The walk home is brisk. Stan shivers with cold, his thin t-shirt and ripped jeans doing nothing to block out the frigid temperatures. It’s dark when he arrives. The sitting room light is on, a pale yellow bulb illuminating the most avoided room in the house. He unclips Sparky’s lead just before the doorstep, concentration on the window unremitting. The car is in the drive. He just hopes his Mom is home.

Stan edges the door open, just enough for Sparky to squeeze through the gap and bound to his tattered bed. He soon follows suit, closing it behind him with a frighteningly loud click. He can see Randy’s head poking above the couch pillows as he does it. When his father turns, his heart plummets.

“Hey, son. Where’ve you been?”

Chapter Text

“Hey, son. Where’ve you been?”

Stan freezes. His guard is fully up. Randy’s hair is washed, combed over, and his features aren't quite so sunken in. There aren’t any cans littering the carpet. He’s actually dressed. Stan edges towards the stairs, not quite ready to go up, but prepared in case he needs to.

It’s unusual. It’s not the Randy he’s grown to be hauntingly familiar with. Stan knows he can’t be too careful, doesn’t know how much he might have had to drink. How long it is until his next spree, and how long it may be until flying fists and slurred remarks.

“Just… to take Sparky out. Where’s Mom?” Stan cranes his neck, but there are no lights on in the kitchen, and there are no footsteps upstairs.

It’s just him, Sparky, and his shockingly sober father.

“She got asked to stay late at work. I’ll take you to practice, tonight.”

Stan feels his heart drop for the second time that day. Whether that’s even a possible phenomenon, he doesn’t know.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll get there some other way.” Stan’s voice falls quiet. He finds himself startled as Randy pushes himself off the couch and moves toward him, edging towards the stairs. He hates himself for cowering.

“Don’t be stupid. Besides, we haven’t had any father-son bonding, recently.”

Stan can’t remember the last time he talked or even did something with Randy in a remotely positive setting. It seems like lifetimes ago that he was being hoisted onto his shoulders to watch their shitty soapbox car race down a hill. Now it’s all just accusing fingers and volatile words.

“Okay.” Stan sighs defeatedly as Randy beams. He can’t bear to make eye contact with him. His gaze drops to the ratty carpet as he goes to collect his skate bag and stick from beside the door, Randy following behind.

While Stan moves from the hall to the car, his eyes are constantly over his shoulder. Waiting, anticipating Randy’s shift in mood.

Stan knows nothing good comes from this. He’s almost tempted to keep his stick in hand for the journey. A skate would be too risky. He’s pretty sure a murder charge would end his career, crossed out with the red of his father’s blood. Even a hockey stick would be too inconspicuous.

He settles for putting them both in the backseat, positioning his stick so it’s within arm’s reach in a worst-case scenario.

The journey so far is tense. Stan is turned fully towards the window, mouth firmly shut, not giving his father any attention. Randy eventually permeates the silence with awkward, tentative words.

“Heard you made Captain, kid.” Stan scoffs. He falls back in his seat, glowering. He’s already irritated, in just one spoken statement. How is he meant to cope with the next twenty minutes?

“Yeah, weeks ago.” he snaps, “Why are you so interested all of a sudden? Quitting football and joining the team was like, your breaking point. I’m surprised you didn’t fucking jump, the way you wouldn’t shut up about it.” Stan mumbles the last part. His throat begins to dry up as Randy’s knuckles tighten around the wheel.

“Okay, maybe I’ve been a bit… absent.” Stan rolls his eyes, “But you can’t blame me. You’ll understand what adults have to deal with one day, Stan. Everything I do, it’s for you, this family. You know that, at least?”

Stan can’t bear to listen to this drivel any longer.

“Sure, Dad. I believe you.” The sarcasm is laid on thick.

“It’s so hard, with your mother and the way she is, and with you and Shelley growing up. You understand what your old Dad has to go through, right?”

“With how Mom is? Jesus fucking Christ…” A hand comes up to pinch his nose. Stan is halfway tempted to open the car door and bail.

“Anyway, enough about me.” Randy barks out a laugh. Stan decides not to coddle him, staying silent and stoic, “Why ain’t you driving yourself to practice? You got your license, you got the car, what’s the problem?”

“You know.” It takes a moment before Stan replies. It’s an age-old, borderline dehumanising conversation. One he hates to have. It reopens wounds once stitched shut, the threads pulling taut until they snap, cutting into the skin as they give way.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Stan is firm in his tone. He wants this conversation to end. Randy turns his head at Stan’s irascible words, eyes wide.

“C’mon, kid, loosen up a little. Here, take the wheel. You gotta drive again someday.” With that, his hands are leaving the wheel. Stan’s stay firmly folded across his chest. The road ahead is straight, quiet, the slight mist illuminated by the occasional street lamp.

“No.”

“Fucking hell, Stan, stop being such a bitch.” It’s there that Stan’s blood turns to ice. Randy’s patience is finally being worn thin. It’s almost saddening, how predictable this all was.

“You realise how fucking selfish you’re being? Your mother and I break our fucking backs for you to play hockey, not for you to sit in your room and be driven around like we’re a fucking taxi service. You need to start acting your age. No more of this bullshit.” It’s all so ugly, like a toxin is leaking straight into his father's words. Stan’s fingers tighten over his jacket sleeves. Tears prick at his eyes.

Stan’s twitching nervously all over when he sees it. A pair of bulbs, quite a distance away, but speeding up fast. The car is slowly veering to the left. He realises, all too fast, what’s happening.

“Dad.” Randy’s not listening. His jaw is set, and his eyes are trained on the car ahead.

“Dad.” Sharper, this time.

“I told you, you gotta start driving. So do it, Stan.” he despises the way Randy spits his name as if it scalds him. Like he’s ashamed to even know him.

“I can’t. You know I fucking can’t.” Stan’s vision is rushing, and everything is moving all too slowly.

Everything except the headlights.

“Yes, you can. You’re gonna fucking do it.”

The light is growing brighter. Randy’s foot presses into the gas just a little harder. The engine whines in protest.

It’s soon blinding Stan, and then he’s unfurling, grabbing the wheel and pulling them sharply to the right. Both cars swerve, the other beeping manically, and Randy begins to pull off the gas. He places his hands back on the wheel as Stan’s slowly slips off, away, and retreats back towards himself. They’re soon coasting along at a normal speed again. He’s doubled over, gulping down shaking breaths. Randy simply looks down on him.

“There. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Stan wishes he could put the blade of his skate through his father’s stupid fucking head.

They’ve barely stopped moving when Stan’s storming out the car, pulling out his bag and stick and slamming the doors for good measure. He almost sprints to the rink doors without looking back at his father’s ugly, gloating face. They slide shut behind him, and he breathes for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

He finds himself at the rink’s edge again. Kyle is skating. It’s mesmerising, enchanting, almost sad. It’s not for Stan’s eyes anymore. He’s quick to flee the scene. The ticking of a clock, hanging somewhere in the cold, empty space, reminds Stan that he still arrived with the intention of watching Kyle. He doesn’t even want any part of it.

Not anymore.

Kyle skids to a halt. He’s about to follow Stan; he even takes a cautionary push forwards, but soon stops himself. Mouth closed, head down - it’s for the best. Stan disappears from Kyle’s weak grasp once more, and he’s powerless to stop it.

As Stan approaches the changing room he hears muffled sniffling. He pokes his head around the corner, cautious, quiet, and is greeted with the sight of Ike. His hands are obscuring his face, but Stan can tell by the way his body wracks with sobs that something is wrong. It’s so unlike Ike. He’s half-into his uniform and the laces of his skates snake to the tiled floor, untied.

“Hey, hey, what happened? Are you okay?” Stan’s voice is quiet as he sidles up to Ike, sliding an arm around his shoulders. He’s trying to ignore that this is the first time he’s seen him since he stormed out of practice, that he wasn’t good enough as a captain to prevent him from being so cruelly targeted.

Ike goes rigid and his head snaps up. He’s staring feebly at Stan for the briefest of seconds before he lets it drop again, the ends of his fingers disappearing into his mussed-up hair.

“Just fuck off, Stan.” His voice has an odd lilt to it.

“Okay, don’t tell me, then. I just wanna know if you’re hurt, or anything. Is it bad? Serious?” Ike is rigid under Stan’s caring touch. Like he doesn’t dare bask in the comfort.

“I wanna quit.”

Stan stills. He has to take a moment to let it sink in as Ike’s hands shake.

“Why? Did Kyle say something?” It’s not angry, or accusative. A question, but Ike is quick to bat it away. He attempts to shirk Stan’s arm off his shoulders, head low, a sound of annoyance escaping his mouth.

“Shut up, you idiot. It’s him.”

Stan immediately knows who he’s talking about. His hand, unable to be shaken, tightens slightly around Ike’s bicep.

“I can’t deal with it. I don’t think you’ll ever understand how bad it all is.” He swallows another cry and sniffs loudly. Stan swears he feels his heart break a little at the sound. Ike, usually so brazen and unbothered, reduced to just a smattering of that.

It feels like a failure on Stan’s part. Failure to take action, to nip it in the bud before Ike made such a big decision. He wants to beg and promise Ike that he can change things. There are so many things that Stan would do for Kyle Broflovski’s kid brother.

Ike reaches down. Stan’s arm falls to his side as Ike stretches to pull off his skates with a pained grunt. He tugs and tugs, the skates barely shifting, Ike’s trembling hands slipping over the leather as his frustration increases tenfold.

Stan bends down beside him and puts a hand on either side of Ike’s foot. He hauls the skate, laces hanging despondently, onto the bench. Ike twists with it. His blotchy face is tear-streaked, but confusion is etched deep into all the lines.

Stan’s hands begin to work at the laces. Drawing them tight, crossing them over, repeat and repeat.

“Talk to me then, Ike. Help me understand. I can’t have you all upset like this.” His mouth feels dry when he says the words. Stan’s hands are on autopilot as he looks deep into Ike’s eyes, the younger’s eyes flitting over his features. They drop after a moment, watching Stan’s handiwork unfold with a desolate expression and slumped shoulders.

“Why do you even care? The rest of the guys hate me, too. I’d be better off quitting before we get too far into the season.” His voice is reduced to a mumble. Stan finishes the first bow and begins to adjust the length of the laces, seemingly trying to drag out the conversation with fruitless lace-tying accuracy.

“Cartman hates you. When the hell have you ever been bothered by what that fatass thinks, anyway?” Ike pulls his foot away just as Stan finishes his double knot, hugging his knee. The other skate remains untied, a world away resting on the cold tiled floor.

“Just back off.”

Stan falls silent. The both of them gaze at Ike’s other skate, hanging off the bench, not wanting to speak, not wanting to thicken the tension.

“This is only gonna get worse. C’mon, hit me. I promise I’m not here to judge.” Stan reaches to grab for Ike’s other skate. He pulls his foot back, just out of reach.

“I can’t.”

Stan stills. Two short words, so small, toll in his head like a mourning bell.

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I’m pissed off with you. Second of all, it’s not mine to be sharing. I know I can be a dick to my brother, but I’m not spilling this. Not even to you.” It’s snappy and kind of irritated. Stan attempts to reach for Ike’s other skate again, but he can barely brush his fingers against the boot.

“Oh.” Stan swallows. There’s a lump in his throat, and the more nervous he grows, the larger it becomes. Ike seems to be a little confused at Stan’s vague answer. He looks up with a bewildered expression, meeting Stan’s eyes.

“What? I’m not fucking telling you, stop it.” he’s starting to grow agitated. Stan notices this and backs up, waving his hands in defence.

“No, no. It’s not like that, I don’t want to know.” he places a firm hand over his heart, “It’s not my business. I totally get that.”

There’s a pause. Ike’s mouth is firmly shut, while Stan tries to find the words he wants to say. He knows they’re desperate, maybe even bordering on futile - but he knows he has to try.

“I’m sorry I pissed you off. Is there any way I can make it right?” It’s a wild shot in the dark, but it’s all Stan can offer. It’s like a rope, being thrown to the other side of a collapsing bridge. He just can’t tell if Ike is willing to take hold of it.

Ike looks like he’s about to burst into tears again. His chin trembles but his jaw is still set and held high. His shoulders are almost up by his ears now - they’re tense and rigid and all wrong, it’s not Ike Broflovski.

Ike Broflovski, who’s almost as chill as Kenny. Who’s smooth on the ice, with movements like liquid and as powerful as a tidal wave. Ike, who cares so much for his big brother, who’s secretly sensitive and the most loyal friend you’ll ever find.

Ike, who’s currently curled up on a bench, at the end of his tether at only thirteen.

Stan makes one last ditch attempt for Ike’s skate. It’s like his guard is fully let down, now. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t tense up, and in one fluid motion his leg is laid out on the bench in front of Stan. He collects the laces in his hands and finally begins to tie them.

“I… I don’t know.” Ike is slow and careful in his delivery, “It’s like… I want to keep being your friend. But Kyle’s my brother. It's so hard to just… not take sides, you know?” His eyebrows are knit deep when he looks up at Stan. It’s like he’s unveiling his deepest thoughts, letting them spill out like a ball of yarn.

“The hell do you mean? There are no sides to any of this.” It’s Stan’s turn to be befuddled at Ike’s observations.

“Yeah, sure. You looked pretty pissed off at him the other day.”

Stan intakes a sharp breath. He hadn’t realised Ike could have seen the events that had unfolded in the parking lot. Guilt begins to swirl in his stomach, his hands slowing in pace.

“That… that was nothing.” Stan says, almost robotically. He thinks back to how he had almost yelled himself hoarse, how Kyle had looked back; so small, almost helpless. It sets something in motion behind Stan’s eyes. Ike seems to take note of this.

“Sure didn’t look like nothing.” Ike quips back.

There’s another small break in the conversation. Stan tugs frustratedly on Ike’s laces, all his previous care foregone.

“You know, it was weird seeing Kyle so messed up. He’s been so mad at you for so long. I don’t think he is anymore.”

Stan thinks he could snap the laces soon. He finishes up his knot with gritted teeth.

“It’d be great if you could fucking tell me what’s gotten him so pissed, then. ‘Cause I’d sure love to know myself.” Ike leans away slightly, as if he’s scared of Stan’s bubbling exasperation.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a sign of things getting better?” Ike tilts his head, offering a small smile to his friend.

“Maybe things would get better if he picked up the fucking phone, for once.” Stan says. He runs a timorous hand through his hair.

“I’m done with it all now, though. It doesn’t matter anymore.” he laughs, a little shakily.

Ike’s head tilts further. He looks a little disoriented at the news.

“I don't hate him. I don't have anything against him. I just think this is better for both of us. Maybe.” he takes a breath, debating over whether he wants to say the words that are on the verge of tipping from his mouth.

“I don't really know what I want anymore, Ike.” he admits quietly.

The silence floods in, all too quickly. Stan’s maybe starting to regret his words, regretting letting himself be so vulnerable in front of Ike. He’s almost tempted to take them back, mouth half-open ready to be his own line of defence.

“I think things will work out. Just… don't give up on him.” Ike speaks, and it’s lighter, more hopeful than anything that’s left his mouth within the last few minutes.

Stan is hushed as he muses over Ike’s words. He changes wordlessly, thinking, and ties his laces, wondering. He folds his clothes as he ponders, scouring his brain for all the possible things it could mean. He eventually lands on something that makes him shoot up straight, toppling a little with the added height of his blades.

I hope you find what you’re looking for.

The other boys arrive just as Stan makes this connection. He jumps a little as they file in, chattering, oblivious to his and Ike’s defeated stances. It’s only Kenny who notices. He saunters into place next to Stan, leaning in slightly with hushed tones.

“You good?” Short, but spoken so sweetly that Stan feels like he could just melt into Kenny’s comfort. If only the others weren’t there, of course.

“Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just Ike that’s a little messed up. Don’t tell anyone.” Stan whispers back. He sneaks a worried glance at Cartman, who’s flexing his imaginary muscles - much to the discomfort of Tolkien and Clyde.

“Oh, forreal?” Kenny pulls his shirt over his head. He seems lost in thought as he drops it carelessly at the side of his battered skate bag.

“Hey. I know what we should do.” he’s grinning, and Stan’s expression contorts with worry.

“Ken. Seriously. Don’t do anything fucked to him.” he warns.

“Hey, who the hell do you take me for?” he objects, “I wasn’t gonna do anything like that.”

Stan does believe him, but he’s still frowning at his friend. A subtle warning, a vow to kick ass if he dares pull anything. With one last unspoken caution, Stan walks off with stick and helmet in hand, gesturing for Ike to follow him.

They take the long route to the rink. Only a few words are exchanged between them on their journey, and as soon as they reach the ice Ike is quick to skate off and begin stretching on his own.

It’s quiet. Every scrape of their blades against the ice echoes within the tall walls, and their breathing ricochets off the seats. There’s no one else in the room.

Aside from Kyle.

He’s seated on the same benches as before, eyes hidden by his hair, unlacing his skates with the same care and delicacy he’d had since they were kids.

He used to handle Stan like that.

Stan looks on at Kyle’s disconsolate, hunched figure, before skating off to join the others.

It’s not long before the other boys join them. Kenny has a wide smile as he steps on the ice, immediately skating up to Ike and pulling him towards the group. He yelps, a little bewildered, a little hesitant to be manhandled by the McCormick boy.

“Boys,” Kenny announces, his voice carrying across the ice, “We’re gonna have a little fun before Dickhead arrives.” he smirks, and the other boys are whooping. Even Stan grins, and Ike manages a small smile.

It’s only Cartman that protests.

“I’m not playing some faggy game with you losers.” he scoffs. Kenny’s quick to retort, skidding up to Cartman and showering him in icy flakes.

“Pissed you won’t be able to keep up with us?”

Cartman stutters, driving a chubby finger into Kenny’s bony chest.

“Fine! The fuck do you even have planned, anyway? Surprised you’re not too fucking poor to afford to do all this retarded shit.”

“It doesn’t cost money to play fucking Bulldog, you stupid tub of lard. You’re It, by the way.” Cartman begins to yell in protest as the others race to the edge of the rink. Ike follows hesitantly, a little lost, looking to Stan for any kind of reassurance.

“You know how to play?” Stan lowers his voice, leaning over to Ike as they position themselves at the wall. Their arms are thrown out behind them, gloved hands gripping onto the edge for almost dear life. Cartman stands in the middle of the icy expanse, posed and ready to strike. There’s a sinister look in his eyes and a sly grin on his face.

“No.” Ike sounds a little unsure.

Kenny butts in at the right moment.

“So,” he bellows, enough for Cartman to hear, “rules are simple. Cartman’s It. Make it to the opposite wall without getting tagged. If you do, you join Cartman. Game ends when the last person’s tagged. Contact’s allowed, but as soon as you touch the wall, you’re safe. Got it?”

Everyone nods in affirmation. Kenny takes up his position at the wall between Stan and Tolkien. He looks to Ike, who nods at him in determining confirmation, and the game begins with a shout from Kenny.

The boys shoot off. They pick up speed with ease and easily dodge Cartman’s swiping hands, yelling warnings to each other between fits of laughter. All five of them drift to an abrupt stop at the wall, Kenny crashing into it with such force that he’s almost sent tumbling over the top of it. They pause to catch their breath, before Ike’s skating back again with a middle finger thrown in Cartman’s face.

They follow. None of them hear the sounds of a tense conversation beginning to pick up just metres away from them.

Clyde is the first to fall. Cartman collides with him with way too much force, sending them both sprawling to the ice. As Clyde is lying in place, groaning, Cartman pulls himself to his feet and tags him. It’s more of a slap, ending in Clyde swearing and clutching his cheek, but he’s quick to scramble to his feet and face the remaining players.

Tolkien, Kenny, Stan and Ike are against the far wall, taking in deep gulps of air. Sweat is beginning to bead on their foreheads.

“Shit. You think it’s time for a plan?” Stan turns to Kenny. He stands for a moment, breathing heavily as he judges their two opponents.

“Fuck that,” Tolkien pipes up, staring the pair down, “Watch this.”

The three of them watch with bated breath as Tolkien speeds off. He manages to weave between Cartman and Clyde, successfully colliding with the opposite wall.

He waves to them. Cartman and Clyde assume offensive positions.

“Should we follow?” Ike asks.

“Just watch.” Stan replies, “He does this every fucking time.”

Tolkien begins the treacherous journey back. He's immediately met and sandwiched between Clyde and Cartman, who drag him roughly to the ice. Kenny and Stan burst into raucous laughter as Tolkien yells at the pair. They pull him upright, and soon it’s three against three.

With a reassuring nod from Stan, they all skate off together. Ike artfully dodges the defenders, easily ducking under their arms and propelling himself forwards with his heightened speed. Kenny is simply too fast for them all to catch. Stan finds himself encountering too many near misses but makes it to the wall just as Tolkien’s fingers brush against the small of his back. He’s breathless as he turns to face his contenders.

Ike and Kenny skate into the battlefield before Stan has time to process it. He can feel sweat rolling down his forehead as he scans over the ice.

“Stan! What the fuck are you doing?!” Ike yells at him as he’s being pursued by Clyde. He manages to reach the other side just as Stan snaps out of his tired daze, pushing away from the barrier with nothing more than blind faith in his heart.

He’s unaware of Cartman approaching him from his right. Stan’s sure he’s made it. Safety is just an arms-reach away, he’s so close, Ike is wide-eyed and frantic and he doesn’t know why–

Stan is sent careening to the ice, hitting his head sharply as he falls. He quickly registers Cartman’s full weight on top of him in his dazed state.

“Get the fuck off me!” Stan exclaims, hands once flailing coming up to struggle against Cartman and their entangled limbs.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Stan, calm your fucking tits!” Cartman spews. The pair scuffle with each other for a moment before Stan manages to crawl out from underneath his teammate.

As their scrap ceases they realise that no one is laughing. There’s not a single eye on them, in fact. As Cartman’s gaze follows theirs he begins to snicker, in the sinister, sort of awed way that everyone knows is a bad sign.

Stan can hear the yelling now. It’s frenzied, coming from the side of the rink. With a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, Stan pushes himself to his feet.

Dread fills his features at the sight. Vaughn is standing over a shrinking Kyle, malice set deep into the lines on his face. Kyle’s fists are clenched at his sides and his teeth are clenched - but the fear filling his expression is unmissable.

Stan skates tentatively to the barrier. Ike is close to him, horrified and pale. They exchange a worried look as the rest of the boys crowd them - more curious than concerned.

“You don’t get to coach me. You don’t get to say a single fucking word to me. Just piss off and leave me alone!” There’s clear tension in Kyle’s stance, and his voice trembles as Vaughn towers over him.

Once again, Stan’s helpless, stood uselessly at the sidelines. He’s never felt more powerless as a Captain. All he can do is watch, scared stiff as Kyle is torn apart by a man who shouldn’t really matter, yet seems to be pulling at all the strings.

“So suddenly it’s a crime for me to comment on how sloppy your layback spin was?” There’s a cruel tilt to Vaughn’s smile. Like he knows exactly what he’s saying. All the disappointment and disapproval in his tone seem to knock the wind out of Kyle for a moment. He reels back before his wrath is truly unleashed, a trembling finger coming up to jab accusingly at Vaughn.

“And who’s fucking fault is that?!”

The silence that fills the room is stifling. Stan wants so desperately to speak up, to try and diffuse the situation, but he’s met with jumbled words dying on the tip of his tongue instead. He can feel Kyle’s trepidation from where he’s safely standing on the ice, which almost relates to the terror in his eyes. It’s like he’s back in the car with his father again, trapped and paralyzed under the weight of his judgement.

If Stan could be the protector that he had once been for Kyle, all those years ago, he would. Fighting by his side in fictitious, fantasy battles on the train tracks, pulling him by a kite string out of the path of a car in the street - he feels that instinctual urge to guard Kyle against all harm beginning to rise again.

He feels it despite how Kyle had run away when things had gotten too tough. Feels it even though he doesn’t care for his former best friend anymore. The times of being Kyle’s shield are long since over.

Vaughn is now leaning into Kyle. Stan can see how he shies away in the proximity, how his bottom lip trembles as the older man inches closer. There’s a sentence spoken, heard only by Kyle, that causes him to blanch, and for Vaughn to walk away with a brutal smirk. Kyle stiffens as the older man makes his way towards the rink, cold and uncaring.

Cartman bursts out with laughter. The boys turn to face him with aghast expressions.

“Holy fucking shit!” he can barely get a word out between his snorts, “What a fucking show! Jeez, Kyle, maybe you should go into fucking theatre instead of that gay-ass skating!”

Kyle whirls in their direction. He’s fuming. The ends of his ringlets are almost burning - Stan doesn’t think he would be surprised if he ever noticed smoke rising.

“So this is just fucking funny to you?”

“Oh, yeah, dude. Fucking hilarious.” Cartman is deadpan in his delivery.

“You’re all fucking losers. Fuck all of you.” Kyle’s welling up as he says this. It’s a throwaway comment, spit in a moment of hurt, but he’s looking at Stan the whole time. Looking, so deeply with tears filling his green eyes - they’re almost too big for his thin, weary face. It’s spoken with so much intent and so much fury that Stan almost feels his heart plummet when he hears it.

He doesn’t dare protest as Kyle storms off. Stan barely even notices the other boys’ muttering, their hurried scrambles for their helmets and sticks. It’s just him and Ike, staring painfully at where Kyle once stood.

Suddenly there’s a palm, slapping him hard in the back of the head. Stan jumps. It’s nowhere near enough to properly hurt, but as he turns, he pales upon seeing Vaughn administering the same hand to Ike.

“At this rate, you two’ll be benched for this weekend’s match. It’s no wonder your team can’t pull themselves together, Marsh.” His tone is stern, but it’s demeaning, terrifying - nothing like pissing off their old coach. The criticism all came with good intentions from him, but from Vaughn it makes the hair on the back of Stan’s neck stand up. It makes him feel small, and transports him back to being in his father’s looming shadow.

“Broflovski.” Vaughn spits Ike’s last name like it disgusts him to say, “Get your act together. Tell that to your brother, too.”

Ike’s fist tighten. His mouth opens in protest, but he’s halted by Vaughn turning back on Stan. His steely eyes seem to be all over him, boring deep, before he moves closer.

“Get rid of the hair. It’s distracting in a game setting.” It’s a low, calculated dig, spoken in wickedly hushed tones. Only Ike could’ve possibly overheard it.

Stan recoils, a gloved hand reaching up to his hair defensively. It now curls around his ears and is almost touching his shoulders - Sharon has begged Stan timelessly to get it cut, but he’s still adamant about liking it. Maybe it is the change that comes with a bold new hairstyle, but Stan finds himself tolerating his reflection just a little more with the safety of his longer hair.

“Oh, um, no can do, Sir. There’s no rules against it.” Stan’s voice is quiet. He swallows as Vaughn’s eyebrows pique in rage. He half expects an empty beer bottle to be hurled at his head within the next few seconds.

He thinks it’s shameful how Vaughn can remind him so much of his father.

Vaughn is silent for a moment. Then, they both catch sight of Stan’s old coach stepping onto the rink with a wave and a determined smile. He nods in Stan and Ike’s direction, before stopping to address something in Kenny’s technique.

“You’ll be the death of your own career, Marsh. Don’t push it.”

Before Stan can even think of a counter Vaughn’s walking away, towards their other coach. It’s a repulsive sort of relief that washes over him and Ike - though the pair don’t dare exchange anything more than a comforting smile as they slip in their mouthguards and helmets and pick up their sticks.

Anytime Stan looks towards the stands, he’s filled with hollowness at seeing Kyle’s absence. With every glance, he gets a little more hopeful that Kyle will be there - shaken, but okay, with his glasses and textbooks and fond smiles.

Stan should not be missing him this much. Decidedly, he doesn’t miss him at all.

It’s just another hurdle in moving on. He knew all this when he started. But Stan didn’t quite expect it to feel like a blunt blade meeting ice.

Each pass of the puck feels robotic. His timely glimpses at Kyle’s empty seat come more naturally than his hockey playing, at this point.

Stan wishes he could see Kyle. Wishes he knew he was okay. There’s a lot he wishes he could do, have, say.

He chuckles bitterly into his mouthguard. Wendy’s hopeful words echo in his ears once more. Finding what he’d been looking for was the easy part. It had been letting go of it, without knowing what he wanted, that had been the hardest part of it all.

Stan scores. He celebrates, but cannot bring himself to be truly happy about it.

Their practice ends. It’s the first time in years he’s grateful that it finally has.

Chapter Text

Saturday. Game day.

It’s the first thought in Stan’s mind when he stirs. He notes faint light seeping through the gap in his curtains, how he’s half hanging off the mattress while entangled in his sheets, and how his desk chair is still wedged under his door handle from the night before.

Stan’s head is killing him and his eyes are bleary, but he’s excited.

He rolls onto his back. It’s silent; no movement, no one awake other than him. The clock at his bedside reads just a few minutes past seven-thirty and he knows he’s barely slept.

Randy had kept him up almost all night. He’d come home just as Stan had finished his final, intensive pre-match practice, reeking of beer and looking even worse for wear. It had been an exhausting night of arguments, screaming matches and things being smashed. Stan had barricaded his door to try and get even just a little sleep, so he wouldn’t show up to the game with a black eye and split lip. It had happened before and led to the questions flying the first time.

It ceased early into the morning with Randy leaving in a storm, and Sharon taking the bed - alone. Despite the silence, Stan slept fitfully, his dreams consumed with waking nightmares about his mother’s condition.

He wishes he weren’t so cowardly, wishes he were able to protect her and keep her safe from Randy. Stan thinks if he were a little taller, or worked harder at hockey, he’d be able to fulfil this duty.

There’s a dull ache present in all of his joints. Stan’s been practising hard all week, labouring more than ever before. Vaughn insisted that they train intensively - above and beyond their limits.

There had been no more games. It was all serious now.

He pushes himself upright, wincing, rolling his shoulders and stretching his legs out and over the side of the bed. A slight chill wraps itself around his bare legs and arms. It had been trying once again to snow this week, with the temperatures dropping even further, but the meagre evening snowfalls they had gotten had been washed away by showers of rain. Stan wraps his arms around his torso, hugging his ribcage in a meagre attempt to settle his oddly excited nerves.

Still, nobody stirs. Shelley might be at her boyfriend’s. Randy’s definitely not home, and Sparky has long since outgrown the need to wake Stan with his rough tongue every morning.

Stan finally moves off the bed. He pads across his carpet, stepping over the notebook that had slid off his bed last night, his laundry, and various trinkets. In front of his closet is his skate bag, his kit spilling out the top and his skates leaning precariously beside it. He kneels down and begins folding it, putting everything back in its place. There’s a relaxing rhythm to it - calming the slight trembling in Stan’s hands and keeping his overactive imagination from running away with itself. He slots his skates into place. For a brief moment, he feels complete.

He backs up for a second to collect the aforementioned notebook. Stan had been making a vain attempt to catch up on his homework the evening before, trying to use the dull routine of formula, plug, solve to drown out the harsh tones of his father’s yelling. It had quickly derailed, with Stan scrambling for his headphones and stolen iPod and burying them deep in his ears. He doesn’t even care that American Football is quick to begin blasting, the sorrowful melodies only reminding him of Kyle and everything he’s lost. As Mike Kinsella sings of nostalgia and regrets so strong they could kill him, Stan scribbles down messy lyrics, his handwriting barely legible and his fingertips drumming against the page as he scrawls.

When sleep finally claimed him, the notebook slipped onto the floor. Stan now gathers it in his arms and stuffs it in an overflowing drawer of unfolded clothes, burying the secrets it holds between the folds of graphic tees and scruffy ripped jeans.

He moves to the chair next. Stan dislodges it from under the door handle, exhaling a sharp breath he was unaware he had even been holding. He inches the door open and pads downstairs.

The damage had been done. While Sharon had clearly attempted to clean it away, and conceal it from her only son’s attentive eyes, Stan can feel that things are off - the frame containing a photo of the four of them on the mantle is gone, and the furniture is out of place. The room feels unwelcoming, like it’s barely even a lounge anymore. Stan moves to the kitchen with tired eyes and a slouch in his posture, the atmosphere there being at least a little nicer than the breeding ground of hatred that is his sitting room.

Stan brews a mug of coffee. Just the one, a black, steaming abyss swirling in a cup that makes him grimace. He holds it tentatively - one hand on the handle, the other with a finger and a thumb ever-so-carefully around the rim, keeping it steady and from spilling over his skin.

Sharon’s door is ajar. He nudges it open with his hip, making his way slowly to her bedside and setting down the mug. The other side of the bed is lonely. The sheets are even still tucked into the mattress.

She stirs and is quicker to rise than Stan ever has in the morning. Sharon wordlessly takes the cup and takes a small sip, humming appreciatively as Stan takes a seat beside her. The mattress dips under his weight and he doesn’t dare speak. There are still traces of guilt in the back of his mind, too.

“Was it bad?” he manages to ask. Sharon smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She doesn’t look up from her coffee.

“Do I look okay?”

Stan wants to shake his head so badly, because he knows, knows all the heartbreak and all the pain she hides, but he doesn’t. He nods, a little rigid and slow.

“Then I am okay. Don’t worry about me, Stanley.” Sharon takes another slow sip, “This is lovely, by the way.”

Stan glows. He’s entirely unconvinced by his mother’s reassurances - his leg bounces tellingly, and he chews at his lip as Sharon finishes the mug. Her eyes are shadowed by dark bags, Stan notices, and the wrinkles on her face seem more prominent than ever. Her small face is framed by brown hair, wispy strands of grey curling out of her scalp.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stan asks once more. It’s quieter this time. Sharon sets down her mug and moves to pull him in, resting her chin atop his head.

“I promise. I wish you wouldn’t worry about me so much. You have more important things to be thinking about.”

Stan doesn’t respond. After a moment within Sharon’s warm embrace, he pulls away, and her hands move to gently smooth over his messy hair. It’s sticking up in every direction - a natural consequence of Stan’s erratic sleeping.

“Wow. You really need it cut. Did you even look in the mirror this morning?” She chuckles, but it's not unpleasant nor spiteful. Stan bats her hands away with an embarrassed groan.

“Mom.” He pushes himself off the bed and moves towards the door.

“‘M going to get dressed. Are you coming to watch us play?” The hopefulness seeping into Stan’s tone is sort of childish - a bottom-lip-filled beg for approval. He feels like he’s in elementary school all over again, tugging despairingly at his father’s limp arm because they’re late for their class’ Christmas performance.

“Of course.” She’s beaming. Stan’s shoulders loosen from their previously stiff position.

“Before you do anything, would you mind calling your little friend, Ike? Just in case he needs a ride. I wouldn’t like him to miss out on his first match of the season.”

Stan raises his arm in a sort of mocking salute.

“On it, boss.” He grins, making his way towards the phone in the downstairs hallway.

Stan recalls how on Tuesday (though it might have been Monday - the week has been a blur of Vaughn’s stern instructions, flying pucks and iced hurts) Ike had knocked at his door. It was an unusual time in the evening when Stan was preparing to leave to go to hockey practice. He’d opened it, puzzled, to be greeted with the sight of Ike himself, breathless and lugging an all-too-big skate bag and stick behind him.

“Hey?” Stan greets him, confused. Randy isn’t home, so he opens the door a little wider, standing aside just slightly to let Ike shuffle past him. He dumps his things in the hallway alongside Stan’s. They’d also been preparing to leave soon, Stan is admittedly a little more disorganised and more focused on the music he would listen to in the car.

“Is it okay if I catch a ride with you? Maybe for like, the rest of the week, too?” Ike asks, his head low. Stan almost doesn’t dare to ask what happened. The question is like an itch, though, nagging in the back of his mind until he just has to blurt it out.

“Sure, no worries. Did something happen?” Ike freezes.

“... Nothing you need to worry about. Kyle’s just like, I dunno, freaked. Not going to practice. Mom’s worried sick about him.”

Stan pauses, tilting his head. His mind casts back to just a few days ago - to Kyle, with an expression like he’d been burnt by Vaughn’s callous words. His weary body had been so tightly strung. The features on his face, so full to the brim with hurt and upset, looked as though he may burst into anguished tears at any moment.

“Is he okay?” Stan finds himself asking, before cutting himself off abruptly. He has so many questions and so many concerns, but he knows the answers will remain a secret from him. They’re almost like a reward, one you obtain for reaching a certain level of acquaintance with Kyle and the Broflovskis - and Stan had ruined that years ago.

“Dunno.” Ike shrugs, and that’s the last that’s spoken of it.

Stan almost feels like he doesn’t deserve to ask. He’d lost the right to all of Kyle, and all the little things that came with him. There was no more stealing Kyle’s shirts - ugly, brightly coloured things he’d amassed from various roadside attractions. No more huddling close during scary movies, no more bumping hips and giggling shyly while they make sugar-filled snacks that were sure to send Kyle’s diabetes into a meltdown.

There’s no more holding hands, the comfort of the other there as a way to plough through the hardships of teenage angst. No more, because Stan had thrown it all away.

Sharon comes into the room. She seems surprised to see Ike but greets him with a warm smile.

“Oh, hello!” Ike seems to relax a little more upon seeing that Sharon isn’t going to penalise him.

“Hi, Mrs Marsh,” He says shyly, cheeks dusted red in slight embarrassment.

“It’s okay if we take Ike to practice, right, Mom?” Stan butts in, perhaps a little overeager in his tone. He grabs onto Ike’s shoulders, causing the younger to startle slightly. Sharon can only chuckle at her son’s enthusiasm.

“Of course it is. Do you want something to eat before we leave?” Sharon is almost like everyone’s mother. If Kenny’s family were struggling, or if Kyle needed some time away from his overprotective mother, Sharon would be there - the first to help and the first to care.

“I’m okay, thank you.” Ike is meek and polite in speaking to Sharon, “I ate at home. You know what my Mom’s like with food.”

She chuckles, in a mutual understanding from mother to mother.

From there until the rink, the conversation dulls slightly. Sharon and Ike make pleasant small talk - about Sheila and Gerald, school (briefly about Kyle, until Sharon catches a glimpse of Stan’s frown from the backseat). He has an earbud in one ear, one side tuning in to the conversation happening in the front seat, the other listening to Blur.

Sharon sends the both of them off to practice with a tight hug. She does this daily, the hugs only growing longer as Stan and Ike’s exhaustion does.

Stan secretly thinks it's the only reason he made it through practice that week.

Stan dials the Broflovskis’ number. He expects at least one of them to be up this early - their coordination as a family and as people had always put the Marshs to shame. Sheila was probably in the kitchen, making a hearty breakfast. She’d be making something from the leftovers from last night’s Shabbat dinner because as she does every week, she’d have made too much. Gerald would probably be working already, and Ike would be getting ready for the match.

He somehow has no clue about what Kyle could be doing. The predictability of his routine had become a mystery to Stan so long ago when they had grown apart and subsequently grown up. Then, the dial tone shrieks in his ear, causing him to lose his thought.

The phone only has to dial thrice before Sheila picks up.

“Hello? This is Sheila speaking.” There’s a distinct sound of a pan spitting in the background.

“Hi, Mrs Broflovski. It’s Stan. How are you?” He’s not willing to have a repeat of his last call. Stan smiles as if Sheila can see his face.

“Oh, I’m great, Stanley. And yourself? Ike’s been telling me about your big match today! I’m excited for you boys. He’s been working so hard all week, he’s not even up yet. Now, you know how worried I was about my little bubbeleh playing such a rough game, but he’s really blossomed, so I hear!”

Stan grits his teeth a little, forcing a smile that Sheila will not see. “Oh, um, okay. I was just wondering how he’s getting to the match, is all. I know Kyle usually takes him, but…”

“I can ask Kyle if you like. That boy! He still hasn’t decided what he’s doing today.” She bellows Kyle’s name as Stan stutters weak protests, his heart beginning to spike, “Oy, bear with me a second, Stanley, he’s not even awake…” She tuts.

“No, no no no, it’s okay, really, I don't-” Stan stumbles over his words, faltering as Sheila mutters indecipherable things in the background. The receiver is handed to someone else, and Stan’s gut immediately drops.

“Hello?” Stan's mouth dries up. He’s not sure if he’s prepared to hear Kyle’s voice again, especially if he’s not spouting harsh words in heated tones. He’d rather Kyle yell at him, and say awful things than have to hear him talk in that voice. That voice, that Stan doesn’t recognise and didn’t grow up witnessing its change, but is still so Kyle to its core.

“It’s Stan. How’s Ike getting to the match?” He keeps it short, not daring to ask how Kyle is, just on the off chance that he falls all over again.

“Oh. Er, erm…” Kyle stammers. It’s the opposite of how he’d been on the phone just weeks ago. Stan swallows.

“I’ll take him, um, I think my Mom wants to see him play. I do too, to be fair! It’s just—“ And just like that, right as Stan’s interest is piqued again, Kyle cuts himself off.

Stan does think that Kyle’s newfound curiosity surrounding his and Ike’s game is peculiar. He recalls the other boy’s desperate plea to quit the team, and it’s making him even more inclined to believe that Kyle hadn’t been sabotaging him, though the reason for the pleading still evades him. He’s still less than ready to go back to Kyle, though.

“I’ll take them. Thank you, though. For the offer. And for taking him this week. I’m sorry I couldn’t, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” Kyle is surprisingly meek and docile. It’s making it all so much harder for Stan.

“No worries.” There’s a gap of silence here, both boys tongue-tied. Words they want to say so badly, but know they can’t.

“I’d better go. See you around.” Stan finally ends the conversation. He’s about to put down the phone when Kyle finally speaks again.

“Okay. Bye.”

It’s so quiet. It’s all Stan thinks about on his way to the rink two towns over.

The energy is electric when he arrives. Sharon sends him to the changing rooms with a kiss on the cheek, and Stan forgets about Kyle for a moment. He greets Ike, Kenny and the others with raucous cheers and a promise of victory. None of them, not even Cartman, can hide their sheer excitement.

It’s crushed soon after. Vaughn enters the room with an expression of thunder, and all the boys fall silent.

“I don’t want any messing around. I’m here to win, and by god, if you don’t you’ll all be paying.”

His attention turns to Ike. The smaller boy doesn’t cower - he holds himself rigid, but Stan can see the fear that shines through in his eyes.

“You screw this up, Broflovski, and I’ll make sure you’re off the team. You need to start pulling your weight.”

Ike’s head drops in shame. Stan’s about to protest the unfairness of the comment, but he’s silenced by a cutting glare from Vaughn.

Their other coach arrives then, with a bright smile and an apology for his lateness. It’s like the weight lifts, ever so slightly, from Stan’s shoulders as their eyes meet. As they’re preparing to leave for a warm-up, he pulls Stan aside.

“You okay, champ? You look like you’re gonna hurl.” A heavy hand falls atop his head, messing with his hair.

“I’m good. Just a bit tired. The guys and I practised a lot this week.” If Stan were a little more hopeful (a little more delusional, even) he’d be able to pretend the hand belonged to Randy. He hasn’t felt touch like it in so long and hasn’t heard anyone care for him as his coach does.

“How much? You boys know not to strain yourself before match day.” Coach says dubiously. Stan’s too exhausted to deal with the possible consequences of selling out Vaughn’s cruel techniques, so he settles for barking out a laugh and a vague answer.

“Nah, we haven’t! Just enough to get by, you know?”

Coach looks completely unconvinced. Stan is a notoriously terrible liar, after all.

“Stan, if you’re being pushed too far while I’m not there, I trust ya to tell me. I won’t stand for it.”

Stan’s heart races.

“We’re all fine. I’m fine. I promise you.” Stan finishes with a wide smile. He doesn’t dare elaborate, at risk of digging himself and the team into a deeper hole.

He feels like he’s going to crumble under Coach’s stare. It’s not unkind nor judging, just concerned - something Stan hasn’t experienced in a while. He feels vulnerable, almost.

Coach pulls him in for a rough hug.

“You’re all going to do great out there. I’ll be so damn proud if you win this.”

Stan laughs a little at the action.

“Coach, it’s the first game of the season.” He replies, a little weakly.

He wishes so badly this was his dad saying this to him.

Coach laughs heartily. He pulls away, a comforting hand still resting on Stan’s shoulder. The weight of it alone is grounding enough. It almost burns through his jersey, though the touch doesn’t scald. It’s warm and assuaging and Stan wants nothing more than to bask in it for the rest of his years.

“What, I can’t have faith? I know you boys will do me proud.” Coach’s aged, yet sunny expression is nothing short of reassuring for Stan. He grins back, and the pair make their way to the rink with determination coursing through their bloodstream.

There’s a considerable crowd that’s gathered in the stands. Their opponents, being from a much larger town within Colorado and also being more skating-oriented, also happen to have a much bigger rink. It’s a far cry from the dilapidated and peeling building that houses Stan’s home turf - it almost seems like a world away from them. He half wishes that the adults in their town spent half as much time fixing up their ice rink as they did fighting over football and pissing away beers.

Stan catches sight of his mom in the stands. She waves to him excitedly as he steps onto the ice. He greets her back, unable to hide the smile growing underneath his helmet. As he joins the rest of the team, his eyes drift over to Sheila, sitting next to Sharon and seemingly talking her ear off. Then they move over to Kyle, slumped in his seat looking sickly and miserable.

Stan has never averted his gaze faster. He turns back to the team with a thumbs-up and a determined grin. Kenny’s the first to return it, the rest of the boys soon following.

They run through a few warmup drills under the scrutiny of their coaches. Puck, pass, puck, pass; it’s a familiar routine that aids in easing Stan’s nerves and enables him to be fully immersed in the game.

As he runs through drills, he catches the eye of each of the players - all with a different kind of determination within them, all with something they can bring to the match. When Stan sees how unbothered they are in comparison to his beating heart and sweating palms, he wonders if he’s truly cut out to be their captain.

Their opponents step out onto the ice, then. They’re bigger, stronger, with a lot more ferocity in their expressions. They’ve played them before, and Stan can remember them as being a tough opposing side. He gestures to the rest of the team, pulling them in for a huddle as the referee announces the time they have left before the game begins.

“So, remember what we talked about,” Stan begins, trying to hide the shaking in his voice. He’s reassured slightly by the faces of his friends staring back at him, waiting expectantly for their Captain’s odd words of wisdom.

“They’re massive, I know, but we’ve played them before.”

“Yeah, and we lost. How the hell do you think we’re gonna win, by using fucking black magic?” Cartman butts in crudely. Stan rolls his eyes.

“Just… shut the fuck up, Cartman. We’re a hell of a lot faster than they are. Just stick to what we know, try not to get sent off, and I say we got the win. Fuck ‘em up, ‘kay?”

They all cheer in unison. Cartman is slightly more begrudging to go along with it, and with enough pushing eventually storms off to his goal. The rest of the team spread out as their opponents take their positions on the other side of the rink.

Vaughn observes, eagle-eyed, from the side of the rink. Their head coach stands with him, arms crossed, deep in thought. Sheila and Sharon watch them from their seats, and Stan offers them both a small wave before turning back to the opposing centre player. He avoids making any glances at Kyle.

He knows he can’t let him ruin this game for him.

With a few shouts from the referee, the whistle is blown and the game begins. The puck is dropped, and Stan is immediately pulled away from his fleeting thoughts about the red-haired boy who would rather be anywhere but here.

He launches himself at the puck, battling furiously for it. The struggle, however, is futile. The opponent wins the scrap and is quick to take off with it, Stan trailing behind in pursuit.

The rest of the period passes in a blur. Stan is knocked about, tackled, and pushed, but the pain of all the brutal treatment doesn’t get him down. He’s running purely on adrenaline. His body doesn’t even seem to remember the considerable amount of sleep he’s lacking.

There’s swearing and protests when their opponents score a stunning goal in the second period. All Stan can do is grit his teeth and keep his head down.

He barely even remembers taking the brute of Vaughn’s anger at the intermission. A threat, to perform or be kicked off the team. It’s not so empty as the ones from his father tend to be, but it’s equally as terrifying.

The team enters the third and final period with a little less strength. They play more recklessly, but it pays off, and Ike scores the equaliser. Stan tackles him to the ice in a display of sheer joy as the crowd cheers around them, animated and excited. He’s beaming from ear to ear, and when he stands again, he immediately looks towards his mother and brother.

Stan does not follow his gaze.

The minutes on the clock drop with increasing dread as both teams become more desperate to score the winning goal. The crowd is beginning to get restless as more opportunities are missed, and the angered shouts from Vaughn increase.

Then comes an opportunity. Stan wins the puck in a tackle and finds a gap in the line of defence. There are mere seconds left on the clock. With a fleeting chance hanging just in front of his nose, Stan grasps for it - he shoots, the crowd roaring in his ears.

The puck soars past the goalkeeper and ricochets off the back of the net. The final whistle blows and Stan can barely believe what he’s seeing. He’s so exhausted, breathless and aching as his teammates swarm him, hugging him and screaming victoriously.

It all sets in soon enough. When it does, Stan can’t be happier. He gravitates to Ike most of all, the both of them unable to contain their excitement at their victory.

Sharon, Sheila and Kyle are all waiting at the edge of the rink when they exit. Stan is quick to gravitate towards his mother’s arms, tugging off his helmet and holding her tightly as she showers him with praise.

“Oh, Stanley, you played so well! That goal was amazing!” She presses countless kisses to his head, Stan almost giddy with her affection.

She keeps repeating this praise, over and over until her son is reeling from it. He manages to pull his head away for a moment, to watch as Ike is hugged by Kyle in a similarly proud fashion before Sheila gets to him, pushing herself between the boys to embrace her youngest son. Kyle stumbles a little with his unsteady footing and is quick to clasp the handle of his stick with both hands to balance himself.

“Bubbe, you were so incredible! I’m so proud of you. Just wait until your father hears about how good you were!” She holds him tightly, Ike protesting a little at her vice grip.

A sharp beeping coming from Kyle’s direction startles them all slightly. Stan angles his head around his mother to glance at him just as Sheila pulls away from Ike to begin fretting over her oldest son.

“Was that your Dexcom? Do you need your insulin changed?” She asks.

“Jesus Christ, Ma, leave me alone.” Kyle exclaims, backing away from her. His cheeks are dusted with red that only spreads and grows angrier as he catches Stan’s eye. The pair are quick to break it, with Stan pulling away from Sharon and dragging Ike in the direction of the changing rooms, and Kyle continuing to argue with his mother. The sound of their quarrelling is drowned out by wild celebrations in the changing rooms as they approach the door.

Stan barely has time to register what’s happening before he and Ike are hounded upon entry. They’re swarmed by Kenny, Tolkien and Clyde, all babbling incomprehensible nonsense about how good the game had been and hooking their arms around each other in their excitement. At that moment, they’re just rowdy teenage boys - shirtless and screaming joyful chants of victory.

“Drinks at mine tonight, Marsh, you in?” Clyde asks, before returning to his bag to grab his shirt.

“Hell yeah, who’s coming?” He replies.

“Everyone. No Broflovski, though, not if we’re doing hardcore shit.” Stan stares at him questioningly. He looks over at Ike, though he’s seemingly unphased by the forceful removal of his place at these celebrations.

“What? That’s so fucking unfair. Grow the hell up, Clyde.” Stan argues.

“What? I’m not babysitting a kid, I wanna get hammered.”

Stan’s about to refute his comment with some snarky remark about how Clyde probably won’t even get heavily drunk. Because when he does, it always ends in tears and vomit.

“Jeez, it’s fine, I don’t even wanna go. Sounds boring.” Ike says, butting into the conversation. He’s quick to fall silent when Vaughn enters the room, though, staring down his nose at the boys in front of him.

The atmosphere is quick to turn cold.

“Don’t let this game get to your heads. The way you played was appalling, I wouldn’t even say you deserved that win.” His voice is filled with so much poison, that none of the boys even dare refute it. Not even Stan, still high from his victory.

“I’ll see you all at practice. Anyone who isn’t in form then will be facing consequences.” His eyes seem to lock onto Stan and Clyde, sending a chill down his spine. He gets a sneaking feeling that Vaughn knows, and that scares him to his core.

With the threat left hanging in the air, Vaughn leaves. The boys seem to have crumbled under it slightly, their wild celebrations giving way to hushed conversation.

Stan sits on the bench, quick to swap his skates for his sneakers, and grabs his iPod and a carton of juice from his bag.

“I’m going for a leak,” He tells Kenny as he heads to the door. The other boy nods as Stan leaves, beginning his navigation of unfamiliar halls that seem so much shorter than the single time he’d traversed them before. He eventually locates the bathrooms at the end of a hallway he doesn’t quite remember.

Stan pushes the door open with his shoulder. He’s sort of unbothered, scrolling through the carefully compiled playlist on his iPod with one hand, and sipping from the juice box with the other. The drink is richer and more flavorful than the ones stocked in the vending machine at the rink back home - the boys have theorised that the drinks and snacks in there haven’t been replaced in years. He supposes the lack of customers at the rink means a lack of care for those using it. He grimaces at the thought of drinking probably expired juice cartons.

He chokes when he sees Kyle, the hem of his sweater and shirt held up in his mouth, cane leaning against the sink. His bare chest and stomach are just visible, his ribs protruding slightly. There’s a device attached to his stomach just to the right of his belly button, and Kyle stares at it almost cluelessly. His attention then turns to a small, phone-like device that beeps aggressively at him multiple times. He groans through a mouthful of wool and cotton. A familiar, battered case can be seen on the counter - one that Kyle’s carried around since around age five if Stan’s memory is correct.

Juice dribbles down Stan’s chin and onto his shirt as he begins to hack and cough. Kyle jumps at the disturbance, tugging his sweater down haphazardly to obscure his stomach. He watches with wide eyes as Stan almost doubles over, but his coughs thankfully cease a few moments later. Kyle is all too stiff, his posture defensive and looking for an escape. All it takes is the sight of Kyle’s run-down form for Stan’s guilt to begin eating away at him once more. There’s a stagnated silence as the pair stare each other down, not daring to speak, not daring to move.

Stan’s the one to take the plunge. He vows to make quick conversation and be gone, to spare them both the awkwardness.

He’s adamant that it’s not just for his benefit.

“Um, low sugar?” Stan gestures vaguely towards Kyle’s stomach. There’s still juice on his chin, now drying and becoming uncomfortably sticky. Kyle says nothing, the hand around the hem of his sweater tightening until his knuckles turn white.

“You need like, juice or something?” Stan just wants Kyle to tell him to leave. No matter how harsh or deep it cuts at Stan, he just wants a cue to go.

Kyle breaks the eye contact between them then. He returns to the small device in his hand, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pursed in frustration.

“No. I don’t. Can you leave me alone?”

The appliance beeps at him again.

“For fuck’s sake…” He mutters under his breath as his arm falls to his side.

The signal Stan had been waiting on had been spoken, yet he feels like he can’t leave. He inches closer, carefully pulling his headphones from his ears and dropping them into his pocket alongside the iPod. He places the juice box on the counter, pushing it towards Kyle.

He knows it’s crazy. Knows that nothing he’s doing at this moment is going to allow him to move on. It feels like with each promise Stan makes to himself he moves backwards two steps, right back into Kyle’s unwilling and cold embrace.

“Just take it. You’ll need it more than me.” Stan gives the juice box another nudge. Kyle eyes it up suspiciously from behind his device, just for a moment, before taking it gratefully. His sips are much more gracious than Stan’s, and there’s no hint of any juice remaining when his lips part with the straw.

“Thank you.” He says, slowly, a little flat. With how close they are, Stan can see fully how tired Kyle is. The dark rings around his eyes are made more prominent by his pale, almost lifeless skin, and his ringlets fall flat and dull over his forehead. Even the small necklace he sports - a silver Star of David - seems to have lost its shine. Each minute thing Stan notices becomes yet another sign to stay. He hears Ike’s small voice, in the changing rooms, begging him not to give up on his older brother.

Stan wonders if maybe he was wrong, for all the flying accusations and hurtful words. The guilt pangs in his stomach once again, and now it’s becoming an all too familiar feeling for him to go about his day with.

“So, what’s this?” Stan arches his body, trying to get a look at the screen he’s poring over. Kyle pulls it away, shooting Stan a look of daggers.

“Why do you care?” He retorts.

“‘Cause, you look like you’re struggling?” Stan questions, “Is it a diabetes thing?”

“I’m fine.” Kyle practically spits, “It’s just… new technology, I dunno. I’m still getting used to it. I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, but I want to.” Stan insists.

“Why do you want to help the guy that’s sabotaging your career?” Kyle spits, turning his back on Stan with a final, spiteful glare. It’s Kyle’s bruised tone that sets it all into stone for him, something that he’d known all along, but was too angry to admit he’d been wildly harsh in his claims against his former best friend’s character.

He knows he deserves that. It still hurts nonetheless.

“Agh, fuck, I’m sorry. It was such a shit thing for me to say, I know you’d never do that to me.” Stan’s eyes drop to his shoes. Kyle doesn’t move, doesn’t make a single indication that he’s any more willing to talk to Stan again.

He seems to get the device working after a moment of tinkering. Kyle reaches for his case, gathering it in his arms while Stan can only watch helplessly.

“Kyle?”

“What?”

“I am so fucking sorry. Really. Please let me make things right.”

With shaking hands, Kyle slams his possessions back onto the counter. A bit of juice spurts from the straw with the force. He whirls back around to face Stan, but his expression isn’t angry.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” He asks, in the most pleading, broken voice Stan’s ever heard.

“Doing what? You… you keep saying this. I don’t know what you mean, dude.”

“Fucking… All this! Caring for me, then fucking hating me and acting like everything would be better if I just didn’t exist. I don’t get it.”

Stan can’t provide an answer. He’s trying, but he guesses it’s not enough at all. Before he can even attempt to speak, Kyle opens his mouth. It’s the most he’s heard him speak in years.

“I know I'm not a good person, trust me. It’s why you left. But I'm trying, I really, really am.”

Stan is quick to interject.

“What, no, I didn’t leave–”

“Yes, you did, I know you did. I get it, but why can’t you admit it?” Kyle’s voice is so quiet, so lacking in anger that Stan almost wants him to have.

“Kyle, seriously.” Stan falters, almost at a loss for words. He can’t quite tell if he’s making this better or worse. Kyle seems to be getting more and more wound up, his face contorting and hot tears beginning to collect in the corners of his weary eyes.

“Just say it already!” It’s such a sudden outburst, one that makes Stan jump a little. He gasps, speechless and unable to take his eyes off Kyle.

“Why aren’t you saying anything, Stan?!” Kyle’s almost screaming now, the tears beginning to spill down his cheeks. He latches himself tightly to Stan’s biceps, practically attempting to shake him. Stan freezes, no words coming to mind, unable to move, only watching as his former best friend finally breaks.

“I know what you’re going to say, so please just say it! Tell me I’m fucking awful again, yell at me, please! Just say something!” As Kyle’s voice begins to crack under the weight of his anguish, his tears begin to flow freely.

“I don’t hate you, Kyle. I really don’t!” Stan tries to make himself heard, but it’s clear that Kyle isn't listening. His grip on Stan’s arms is beginning to slip.

“I don’t hate you. I couldn’t ever, no matter how hard I try.” He repeats himself here. It’s with this declaration that Stan finally finds the strength to reach out, arms snaking around Kyle’s back and pulling him in for a tight hug. His head immediately drops into Stan’s shoulder and his fingers find solace in the fabric on his back.

“Please stop lying to me.” Kyle cries into Stan’s jersey. His whole body shakes with his sobs. It takes everything he has for Stan to keep himself from crying too.

“It hurts me, right in my heart, when you lie.” He sniffs, and Stan dreads to imagine what he’d be like if he had to see Kyle, face to face, instead of hearing his voice vibrate into his shoulder.

“Please, just say it. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Kyle, I can’t. I’d be lying if I did say it.”

The words only make him cry harder.

The pair of them stand there for a few more minutes as Kyle forces out the last of his sobs. One of Stan’s hands has since found the others’ hair, caressing the soft ringlets with a gentle touch. He moves as if on autopilot.

Kyle pulls away after a few moments. His face is smeared with tears, and he can’t look Stan in the eye. They stay trained on the tiled floor, and Stan doesn’t attempt to grab his attention.

“I gotta go. My mom’s probably waiting for me.” He gathers his things from the countertop and reaches for his cane, pushing past Stan with a rough yet accidental shoulder check, escaping the bathroom without any further acknowledgement.

The door squeaks on its hinges, signifying Kyle’s departure. All Stan can do from there is mindlessly retrace his footsteps, back to the changing rooms, to change alone, to return to Sharon with far less energy than she had expected of the man of the match. Of course, he’s happy - they won. But Stan can’t allow himself to relish in it.

He grips his hockey stick with a white-knuckled grip and attempts to stop thinking.

Sharon greets him with yet another hug. Stan can’t help but melt into it.

Chapter Text

The air is chilly when they step outside the rink. It has since dropped dark, and Sharon pulls her coat further around her body as they reach the car. They clamber in, Stan’s breath accumulating in thick clouds in front of his face.

“The guys and I are gonna celebrate tonight.” He says.

“Oh? What’s the plan?” She asks.

“Going to Clyde’s house, we’re gonna order takeout and play Xbox.” Sharon nods as they climb into the car, firing up the engine as Stan pulls the iPod from his pocket.

The evening is still settling on the horizon. They navigate the roads home in comfortable silence, Stan occasionally piping up with a new retelling of his winning goal, Sharon listening carefully with a smile spread across her face. He clutches the iPod in his hand, fingertips running across the worn buttons as a calming tool. Stan doesn’t care to look back on anything beyond his goal. He replays the moment in his head over and over, the cheers of the crowd and the celebrations from his teammates just enough to drown out the throes of Kyle’s sadness.

Sharon pulls up outside Clyde’s house. Stan is quick to exit the car - he knows he’s running late, knows he got held up by someone who really, really should not matter to him and who definitely does not matter to the others. Alas, he’s determined not to let it put a dampener on his victory.

He knocks rapidly as his mother pulls away, the cold of the evening beginning to wrap itself around him and settle in his bones. It’s not a comforting cold, like at the rink. It’s sharp, and a little painful.

He waits, and then waits a little more. It seems like Clyde isn’t going to answer. He hammers against the door again, louder this time.

When Clyde finally opens the door to Stan’s persistent knocking, he immediately wrestles him into a strong hug. Stan is laughing, attempting to wriggle away as he's hoisted into the hallway.

“We thought you weren’t coming, man!” Clyde says.

It’s obvious he’s been drinking. Clyde has always been a lightweight - it wouldn’t be surprising to Stan if he’d already downed a few shots and a can of beer. He laughs a little, knocking Clyde’s shoulder with his own as he pulls off his sneakers and shakes off his jacket.

“Dude, you think I’d miss this?” Stan’s grinning as they make their way into the sitting room, towards the raucous yelling of the team. Cartman is front and centre, hanging over Tolkien’s shoulder while the other boy battles foes on the TV screen.

“You’re meant to use a fucking grenade in there, Tolkien, you stupid asshole!” Cartman yells as he attempts to swipe the controller away from him. Tolkien simply shoves him away, expression unbothered.

Their bickering continues as Stan takes a seat beside Kenny on the couch. His thin features brighten up as he turns to face stan, drawn away from the light of the hazy graphics in front of him to the boy who's weight fell into place beside him.

“Yo! How are you feeling, man?!” Kenny’s smile, while filled with gaps and holes, is wide as he loops his arms around Stan in a sudden and tight hug.

“Better than ever. That game was so good.” Stan’s still grinning as Kenny tosses him an unopened can of soda, cracking it open gratefully and letting the cool drink wash over his mouth. Kenny takes a sip of his beer, carefree gaze turning back to the television screen.

They take turns to battle Cartman at the game, since he’s so insistent on his superior skills. Stan beats him easily when it’s time for his turn, the other boys cheering him on as Cartman claims every excuse as to why he lost.

“You’re a fucking cheater, Stan! Your family can’t even afford a copy of the game for you to play, so how the fuck did you do that?!” Stan’s eye twitches and his teeth are gritted, but he doesn’t fall prey to Cartman’s bait.

“Maybe you just suck, asshole.” Stan tosses his controller to Clyde and returns to his seat on the couch, eyes boring indignantly into the back of Cartman’s head.

“Or maybe you learnt some of your cheating from your faggy boyfriend.”

“Dude, just shut up about Kyle. The joke’s about as funny as it was ten years ago.” Stan bites back.

“Yeah, not fucking funny.” Kenny pipes up, a tipsy smile on his face.

“What’s Kyle’s deal, anyway? I haven’t seen him in ages.” Tolkien says.

“Craig said he’s probably trying to get back into all the competitions he got kicked out of. You know he took bribes.” Clyde replies. Stan lets out a loud, exasperated groan.

“He didn’t take bribes, okay? You guys don’t even know the full story.”

“So what is the full story? We’d all love to know, Stan.” Cartman says, with a tooth-rotting, mock-sweetness that makes Stan want to hit him in the face. He stutters for a moment as the boys all turn to face him, heart pounding with nerves. He can’t just make something up. But he can’t say that he doesn’t know, either.

“Well, it’s not really any of your business. I’m not telling you.” Stan settles on, quickly turning back to his soda.

“Ha, this retard! It’s totally a sob story he made up, Kyle’s always been a fucking liar.” Cartman guffaws, before turning back to the game. He lands an unfair shot on Clyde’s avatar with the other boy’s attention diverted, leading him to win the match. “Oh, Clyde, you suck balls!”

“Hey!” Clyde snaps, lunging for Cartman. “That was Stan’s fault, fatass!”

As the pair fight, Tolkien and Kenny are quick to laugh at the pair. Stan wants to stay pissed at Cartman, to prove some sort of point to him, but he’s too tired. He finds himself along with the others, leaning close to Kenny and resting his head on his shoulder. They take over the controllers, battling it out more while Clyde and Cartman continue to argue.

With the atmosphere eased and everyone in higher spirits, the rest of the night passes quickly, with them switching between games every few hours. They eventually order pizza and gorge themselves on it, and as the sky outside grows darker, the boys get drunker.

Aside from Stan, who’s shockingly sober and feeling uncomfortably out of place. The video games have since been abandoned as the others resort to creating crazy cocktails from Mr. Donovan’s spirit cupboard.

“You sure you don’t wanna try any, Stan?” Clyde slurs, thrusting a strange-coloured shot towards him. He backs away, laughing uncomfortably.

“No, I’m okay.”

“You’re such a fucking pussy, Stan,” Cartman spits as Kenny sidles up to Stan, looping an arm around his shoulders.

“If Stan doesn’t wanna drink, then he doesn’t wanna. Stop being an asshole.” Kenny jabs a finger into Cartman’s chest.

Heart racing, Stan detaches himself from the blonde boy.

“I-I’m gonna head out. Thanks, Clyde, for everything, tonight rocked. I’ll see you all soon?” Stan smiles awkwardly as he backs towards the door. Clyde simply waves him away, suddenly feeling the need to clutch the countertop in a clammy grip.

“Bye, Stan.” Kenny winks at him as he turns on his heel, walking towards his jacket and shoes in the hall. He grimaces as he hears Clyde beginning to retch, the other boys apparently rallying around him in fascinated, drunken disgust. He leaves his laces hanging loose and is quick to race out the door, away from harrowingly familiar sounds in a different house.

Somehow, Stan isn’t cold when he leaves the Donovan household. It’s going to be a Colorado December, and the time is closing in on midnight, no less. There’s no wind and the sidewalks are dry - there’s just a chill in the air, brought by the snow that had been trying to fall for weeks now.. Stan had been quietly hoping for a white Christmas, to take away from how disappointing he had already predicted it being.

He still needs to buy gifts. For Kenny, his mom, Shelley, and maybe even Jimbo and Ned (though he hopes he’ll be able to get away from that one). Stan curses softly at the thought and jostles his hand in his pocket. It jingles quietly, loose coins clinking against one another. There can’t be any more than a dollar in there.

Stan could buy Kyle one, too, though he doesn’t know how well it will be received. Hanukkah starts soon. He also wouldn’t know what to get - Kyle’s most definitely outgrown the need for Terrance and Philip branded merchandise, and Stan hasn’t seen him crack a smile in recent days either. After today’s breakdown in the bathroom, Stan supposes that a lot of gift ideas are out of the question, that he just really doesn’t know him well enough to buy something for him.

It’s at least one less gift that he needs to buy.

Stan passes houses with their lights out, all silent and unmoving. The only sound he hears is through his headphones (unusually quiet for him) playing melancholy music. They’re all perfect family scenes: made up of a husband, wife, son and daughter, all tucked up in their beds, fast asleep. There are no late-night arguments and they’re all sleeping with full stomachs - a life that seems so far away to Stan now that he’s older.

Similarly, there are no lights on at his house when he approaches the doorstep. Stan is accompanied only by the glaring streetlight above his head.

The only other light sources are two green spheres, skulking around the base of the house. Small but bright, they move into the light to reveal a small grey tabby cat, with cropped fur and a clipped ear. Stan’s smile widens a little as the cat pads towards him, weaving between his legs.

The story behind Stan and his cat friend isn’t one he’d say is particularly interesting. He’d seen the stray in the area a few times before and decided to sit in the front yard with it on a night when Randy had been annoying him exceptionally. Stan had fed the creature scraps and over the following months, it only ever returned for more, as well as for more attention from Stan.

“I don’t have food for you right now.” He chuckles, crouching down to pet the cat. It purrs gratefully, pressing against Stan’s palm for more contact.

“Tell you what, wait here. I just need a quick shower and I’ll bring you something, ‘kay?” The cat tilts its head as if it somehow understands Stan’s words as he bolts towards the house. Yet it complies and takes a seat just in front of the doorstep.

Stan is in and out of the shower. He’s grateful to peel his clothes off his back, relieved by the cooling sensation of the water washing away the sweat and grime of the day. He replays the goal in his head, over and over like he’s playing back a movie scene, smiling giddily while he scrubs his hair. He’s somehow still warm to the touch as he quietly treads back to his room, wrapped in a towel and with water beading from his hair onto his spine.

He dons only an oversized t-shirt, clean underpants and socks before making his way back downstairs. He’s much too warm for anything else.

The house is too quiet. Stan half-expects to turn a corner and see Randy lying in wait, biding his time for his son to return just to berate him for any small thing he does. His heart is almost in his throat as he sneaks across the lounge and to the kitchen, artfully dodging creaky floorboards that he’d been forced to learn the position of while growing up.

The fridge light is bright, yet rewarding as Stan finally opens it. His eyes gravitate towards a container of cooked beef, chilled for what he presumes will be tomorrow’s dinner. He snatches it up and heads for the front door, fidgeting with the clasps on the lid.

As expected, the cat is waiting. It mewls when Stan steps outside, immediately stretching to sniff out the contents of the container. Stan seats himself on the step, the cat pushed up next to him, picking chunks between his fingers for the creature to take.

He feels oddly relaxed, for the first time today. There’s no weight of expectation under the stillness of the moon - no angry coaches or teenagers looking for advice for things he doesn’t know the answer to. Stan feels his eyes falling shut as the cat curls up next to him, the container of beef forgotten about by both.

“Jesus, aren’t you freezing your balls off?”

Stan snaps to attention. His eyes open once again, moving to look at the cat with a confused expression. The cat simply stares blankly.

His focus wanders around the yard, still dazed, before it finally lands on the source of the coarse question. Kyle, sat at the edge of the sidewalk, staring inquisitively at Stan. When he realises he’s been spotted, he turns back to face the road - head down and slouched to seem smaller.

Stan can’t help but chuckle, he doesn’t even know if he heard Kyle correctly.

“What?” He smiles. Kyle doesn’t turn back to face him.

“I just asked if you were cold. It’s not exactly summer weather.” His voice is tentative, volume fluctuating slightly.

“No, no, not cold. Still running off adrenaline, y’know?”

Kyle snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s definitely how that works.”

Stan slides the lid onto the beef container. He’s almost moving on autopilot, mouth hanging slightly open and unable to stop looking at Kyle’s slouched form. There are so many things he can say, that he wants to say - he can feel the words bubbling up inside him like a shaken can of soda.

He pushes himself to his feet, padding down the cracked driveway and halting just behind Kyle. He doesn’t turn or acknowledge Stan’s presence - his focus is on a small box cradled in his hands. Kyle runs his thumbs over the text on it, just enough that it obscures the text emblazoned on the front. Stan can’t work out what could possibly be inside. He leans over, just enough that he’s hovering silently over Kyle’s shoulder. He’s still oblivious to Stan’s newfound proximity. With the distance closed, Stan can see the box a little clearer. His eyes widen in surprise upon seeing what they are.

“You smoke?” He asks loudly. Kyle yelps, crushing the box as he jumps in surprise. He whirls around to face Stan, expression angry and red, mouth pursed in a small pout.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me.” He slides the slightly dilapidated box of cigarettes into his pocket. Stan can’t help but notice how not subtle the action is.

“I don’t smoke. I-I don’t really know what I was doing with them.” The red on Kyle’s cheeks only grows darker as he brings his knees to his chest, obscuring the lower half of his face in the folds of fabric. He’s bundled up well, a thick, oversized sweater trapping the heat on his upper half, with his lower half swathed in flannel sweatpants. Kyle looks vulnerable like this - there are no sharp angles that show through his tight skating clothes. His pale face is bathed in light from the streetlamp above, the shadows on his face suddenly becoming even more pronounced.

“Can I sit with you?” Stan asks after a moment. He speaks slowly, preparing himself for the rejection he knows is coming.

“Sure.”

The rejection never comes. Stan half-expects to have misheard Kyle and prepares for a barrage of venom-filled words to greet him as he takes a seat beside him. But the words don’t come and Stan can feel his worries melting away instantly.

“Sorry for like, freaking out on you earlier. It wasn’t fair on you.” Kyle doesn’t lift his head when he speaks, his quiet words coming out with a slight muffle.

“It’s okay, dude.” Kyle’s shoulders tense a little at the casual nickname. “You feeling any better?”

“A bit.”

“Are you sure?” Stan shifts a little closer, as close as he dares. He’s not looking directly at Kyle and has to keep sneaking glances to his right to assure himself this is really happening.

“Can you stop that?” Kyle exclaims, short and sharp, lifting his head to face Stan with a pained expression. He’s silent for a moment, defeated on how to respond.

“Stop what?” He asks, a little unsure.

“Being so nice to me. I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

“What if I just want to be? I think you deserve it plenty.”

It’s Kyle’s turn to fall silent. His eyes observe their surroundings for a moment as if he’s searching for the words that fail him.

“You know I don’t, dude, I tried to make you quit hockey.” Kyle looks like he’s grasping at straws, eyes filled with a desperation that Stan just can’t understand. It’s a sort of weakness that Kyle Broflovski would never normally let show. Kyle had never been the sort of person to waste energy on old arguments, either. Stan didn’t care that he’d asked him to quit, so he can’t quite grasp why it still matters to Kyle.

“Who told you that? Of course you deserve it.”

Kyle pauses for a moment, processing the words before returning to his slouched position. He hugs his knees, eyes tired and looking out into the darkness of the neighbourhood. Stan’s vision remains focused only on Kyle.

He shrugs before speaking again.

“You know.” It’s not a targeted statement. Just vague, and loaded with hidden answers Stan so badly wishes he knew. He doesn’t dare to push Kyle, not wanting to ruin a moment so rare for the two of them.

“It was Vaughn. To him, there were a lot of things I didn’t deserve.”

Stan has to take a moment to process Kyle’s words. He blinks, shaking his head a little as if he wants to deny what he just heard. Slowly, ever so slowly, the dreaded dots are beginning to connect in his head.

“You what? Like, our Vaughn? Hockey coach Vaughn? What the hell did you ever have to do with him?” He says, unable to hide the surprised inflection in his words.

“He was my coach, stupid. Used to be a real big name in figure skating before he came scouting out some new kid to train up. Just happened to be me that he scouted.” Kyle practically spits out the last statement, his eyes darkening.

Stan’s having trouble recalling any of this information. He’s sure he would have remembered it if Kyle had told him.

“When was this?”

“Oh, years ago. You were way into hockey by then, and you know I didn’t really talk about skating.”

What Stan does find himself remembering is a memory of Kyle coming to him one evening. He’d burst into his bedroom, carelessly bounding over to Stan, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed adjusting the tuning on his guitar. They couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen. Stan was still shorter, and Kyle had been in his strange phase where he was adamant an undercut looked best on his unruly hair. He’d since grown it out again, though Stan hadn’t been around to see it return to its former glory.

Kyle had grabbed him by the shoulders, ranting excitedly about how he’d been picked by an amazing coach out of so many other skaters, that it was the best thing to ever happen to him. It’s a foggy memory, one in which Stan remembers tossing his guitar on the bed to hug Kyle tightly, to pick him up and spin him shakily as the taller boy laughed heartily.

Their celebrations had been dampened by Randy, returning home drunk and in a foul mood. Kyle had escaped to the safety of his own home, while Stan had stayed to watch out for his mother. Kyle had invited him, and practically begged him to leave for the night, but he’d been adamant in his decision to stay.

Maybe Stan recalls a vow thrown in there somewhere too, a hazy declaration to attend Kyle’s practices, though this had gone unfulfilled regardless of whether it was true or not.

“Oh.” It’s all Stan can manage to force out.

“Everything was fine for a while. Well, I say ‘a bit’. It only took like, a month for it all to go to complete shit.”

Stan doesn’t dare interrupt. But he has a burning question, one he has to know the answer to. For his own peace of mind. He’s scared to hear what Kyle’s answer may be, despite not having pushed the question.

“Kyle, did he hurt you?” He asks, in a low tone. His expression is grim and fully serious.

Kyle laughs bitterly. He swallows, eyes falling to the tarmac.

“God, Stan, I don’t really know. I guess so? At one point I was training at any spare moment I had, pushing myself to the limit on all the training shit - I dropped out of Debate ‘cause he said I’d never be good enough if I didn’t commit fully. But like, I was getting somewhere. I was winning all these massive competitions, and even though I was tired all the time, it felt good.”

Kyle’s voice shakes when he speaks. It’s barely noticeable, and neither is his slight stutter as he begins to recount such old memories. Stan doesn’t comment on it, but it’s so unbelievably unlike Kyle that he can’t help but pay attention to the slight trembling in his tone. Kyle, who’s always so sure of his words, who knows he’s always right, and if he isn’t, then by God he’ll make it so. He takes a short pause before picking up again.

“None of the wins were ever mine, though. It was all Vaughn’s work. I could’ve easily just put more work in, I guess. I prayed, so fucking much, that I could just be better for him. All I did, for so long, was just work for him, give up everything for him, and let him take the credit. He was so, so awful. Like, worse than Cartman.” The last few words barely break a whisper. Stan finds himself shuffling closer to hear them until his foot is nudging Kyle’s slipper-covered one.

“What did he do?” Stan’s unsure if he really wants to know.

“It started out as corrections and criticism, so normal coach stuff. It didn’t take long for it to go to shit. He said so much horrible shit about me and did so much horrible shit. About my weight, my looks, my skating, my family-” Kyle cuts himself off with a sharp breath. Stan thinks maybe he shouldn’t pursue more answers, but his curiosity gets the better of him.

“And you still stayed, after all this?” Stan frowns at Kyle's shallow nod, “Why? I mean, it’s just not like you to put up with someone walking all over you.”

“Well, I guess you don’t really know me then, Stan. I’m not eight anymore.” Kyle snaps as he turns to face Stan, looking slightly irritated.

“Sorry.” Stan mumbles.

“I didn’t stay, either. I blew my shot. Pushed too hard, got injured, you know the rest. I dunno why I’m telling you, I’m sure Ike already fucking snitched.”

“No, I, um, didn’t know that. I don’t know any of this. Ike didn’t tell me anything, other than that you got injured.”

“At Regionals too, can you believe?” Kyle begins to speak again. He’s finally succumbing to the need to get all of this out of his system. He speaks faster and faster until he’s rambling like they’re young all over again and Stan can’t possibly think about getting a word in edgeways.

“Everyone was already pissed about me getting there in the first place. Thought I used bribes or something, but I didn’t.” He’s firm in how he says this, making sure Stan is looking him deep in the eyes and that he knows he is not lying.

“I worked way too hard to prepare. So much training, with Vaughn getting me on all the equipment for hours a day and then sending me out on the ice without a break. I was just so fucking tired on the day, I don’t think I’d checked my blood sugar either. I went to do this massive jump - a triple Axel - and fucked up the whole thing. I fell and just… couldn’t get back up. I don’t remember any of the routine aside from that, I was so tired. I tore a ligament and broke my ankle or something. Doctors said I’d gone into hypoglycemic shock, too. Right in the middle of my fucking free skate.”

Stan can’t hide his horrified expression. He sees how Kyle holds his own hand, attempting to cease the trembling. He wants to reach out and hold it himself, but he’s unsure if he’s even granted that right anymore.

“Jesus Christ, Kyle, that’s so bad.” Stan can barely lift his voice above a whisper.

“Bad’s kind of an understatement.” It’s meant to be a joke - one in poor taste, at that, but it’s not cutting or insulting.

“You wanna know the worst part?”

Stan nods, slowly and hesitantly.

“Vaughn, coming into my hospital room, like just after I’d woken up from my first surgery. The guy’s going mad, yelling about how I’d fucked up this amazing opportunity he’d worked so hard to get for me, telling me how badly I skated, all that shit. And I’m thinking, like, ‘are you for real?’ I nearly died, dude. And then he just fucking quits on me. Tells me he's not coaching me anymore, and that’s if I ever even skate again.”

It’s when Kyle pauses for breath that Stan realises how close he’s truly gotten to him. He shivers a little, and Kyle closes the distance. He presses his side up to Stan’s with an exhale, like it’s a natural inclination for him.

“I couldn’t walk for the longest time. I had to drop out of school ‘cause of PT. I was so, so fucking determined to skate again, just to prove to him I could do it.”

“A-And you did it! Look at you now, dude, you’re fucking amazing!” Stan beams. Kyle doesn’t seem to share his excitement.

“Is it even worth it, Stan?” Stan baulks, his expression contorting, “I’m not the same skater I used to be. I’ll probably never get to like, the Olympics now. Is it worth it?”

“Well, sure it is. You have to do it for yourself. Not to prove some stupid point. If it’s what you want, then go for it, dude.”

Kyle manages a small smile.

“So, what happened after he quit on you?" Kyle is quick to return to his newly-normal, dour appearance.

"Why do you wanna know?”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t trying to push.” Kyle simply looks away, not responding to Stan’s gentle apology.

“Just… If anything, please tell me your Mom knows about him.” Kyle’s eyes fall to the tarmac once more. His hands shake a little more violently.

“Kyle, please.”

After a moment he shakes his head, painfully slowly and ashamedly.

“I couldn’t. She’s worried about me enough as it is.” He whispers, glancing over at Stan. Faint tears are collecting in the corner of his eyes that he quickly swipes away.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna let him get away with what he did to you?”

“What else can I do? He’s not my coach anymore.”

Stan’s at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how to encourage Kyle when he can’t see a solution himself.

“Thank you, for telling me all this.” It’s all he can manage to say.

“No no, thank you for listening to me. Jesus, all I’ve done today is dump my shit on you. I didn’t expect you to believe me.”

“Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

“People tend not to anymore.”

They fall into an uncomfortable silence. A bigger, more violent shiver passes through Stan’s body, leading him to press himself closer to Kyle for warmth. His teeth chatter as he stares up at the few stars he can see before Kyle pulls away suddenly.

Stan looks over at him for a moment, fearing the worst. He’s greeted by the sight of Kyle pulling off his sweater with dusted cheeks, before thrusting it at Stan.

“Take it.” He mumbles, a little embarrassedly, “I knew you were cold.”

Stan tugs it over his head, too tired to say no. It smells like Kyle - clean, and it’s incredibly warm.

“Thank you.” He replies. The redness in Kyle’s cheeks doesn’t seem to be fading as he pushes himself to his feet. Stan follows quickly after him. The pair stand facing each other for a moment before Stan begins to speak.

“What does this mean? Like, for us?” He asks. Kyle’s eyes widen in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you think we could be friends again?”

Kyle freezes. Stan’s heart feels like it’s set to fall out of his chest as he watches Kyle battle himself for an answer. A slight gust of wind passes between them, tousling Kyle’s unkempt hair.

“I… I don’t know. We aren’t kids anymore, Stan. We’ve both changed.” He sounds unsure again, speaking indefinitely.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t try again.” He says, hopefully.

“I don’t know.” Kyle says, and it’s only a little more sure this time. His expression is conflicted, but still, he doesn’t move, eyes rising and falling to look at Stan. Eventually, he moves closer, wrapping Stan in a careful, nervous hug.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and before Stan has time to bring his own arms up, Kyle’s breaking away. He turns on his heel without a word and makes his way back to his own house, not looking back at Stan.

Stan’s left speechless for a moment. He eventually manages to move, succumbing to the cold around his ankles. He scoops up the container of beef from the step as he enters the house, quickly shoving it back into the fridge before returning to his room and clambering underneath the sheets.

He should really make use of the rare silence and go to sleep. But Stan finds his hand reaching for his iPod. He plugs in his headphones and lets an old band Kyle used to like begin to shuffle, lying on his back with his eyes wide open as he replays the sensation of Kyle pressed against his side over and over in his head.

Eventually, he succumbs to his exhaustion, a sad voice still singing sorrowful songs of lost love and unfulfilled life. He’s clasping Kyle’s sweatshirt underneath the bedsheets, tossing and turning as visions of ginger hair and sage eyes plague his sleep.

Chapter Text

Stan finds that as the weeks of the season have crawled on, he’s gotten stronger. He’s a little less out of breath after checking an opposing player and a little less tired and sloppy by the end of a period.

He also seems to practise better with Kyle’s attentive eyes flitting across the ice with him.

Since their heart-to-heart on Saturday, Kyle has been sitting lower in the stands. He still has his textbooks and glasses, but Stan has noticed he seems to be focused a little less on the words within them when the team is practising. They share awkward smiles on occasion, but Kyle is still hesitant to reciprocate any advances, and Stan can only manage a goofy smile with his mouthguard in. That’s just how it’s been, back and forth every few minutes, for the last few weeks.

Ever since that day, Stan’s mind has been working overtime. He’s wracking through a million problems and solutions, but there are too many different scenarios that have kept him up at night. He hypothesises that he’s gone mad, but a small part of him hopes Kyle is overthinking him at the same time.

Stan is thinking a thousand thoughts at once, and Kyle Broflovski is nine hundred and ninety-nine of them.

Today’s practice is a little more laid-back, allowing Stan to sneak secret glances at Kyle. Vaughn isn’t around to make snide comments, but neither is Ike to enjoy such a rare moment. He’s attending a study group tonight, something Sheila had refused to let him get out of no matter how much he had whined.

He’d called Stan the night before, complaining about how stupid the whole arrangement was. All Stan could do was laugh at his misery. Ike Broflovski, the smartest kid South Park has ever seen, is still going to study groups. He likes to think that Ike is probably bored out of his mind right now, surrounded by people much dumber than him.

Each time Stan looks over at Kyle, his gaze wanders back to Kenny. He’s greeted by knowing smiles from underneath his friend’s helmet. It’s somewhat sweet - Kenny’s support and enthusiasm are helping Stan feel a little less crazy about everything he’s doing.

What’s peculiar to Stan, though, is why Kyle is still seated in the stands. Stan only registers that Kyle's practice is over and he has no brother to bring home with him when he turns to make a joke about a bad pass from Clyde and realises Ike’s absence. Baffled, Stan checks again, beginning to second-guess his eyesight, but sure enough, Kyle is sitting there with his nose buried in a book.

Stan can’t reason as to why Kyle may still be here. He has a desk that seems much more comfortable than the cheap chairs lining the edge of the rink, and a warm bedroom that’s much quieter than an ice rink full of riotous hockey players, although he supposes he’s not the one who gets to question Kyle’s methods.

Soon enough, their session ends, and the boys exit the ice. They’re all out of breath and sweating, but this time they’re smiling and joking between themselves. That hasn’t happened in a long time under Vaughn’s scrutiny.

Stan enters the changing room with the others to grab his phone from the pocket of his coat. Tolkien, already shirtless and mopping at his face with his jersey, wanders over to him.

“Yo, Stan, you wanna play Xbox tonight? My place?” He asks. Stan winces a little. He feels bad turning down his friend, but he knows what needs to be done.

“Um, not tonight? I think I’m busy.” He replies a little weakly.

“With what?” Tolkien is giving Stan a confused look. “We don’t have any homework, if that’s what you’re gonna say.”

Panic flashes in front of his eyes for a moment.

“Look, I-I gotta call my mom.” He holds up his phone apologetically, giving it a slight shake. “She'll get all worried if I don’t. Sorry, maybe another time?”

Tolkien simply waves his hand, before turning his back on Stan to pull on his shirt.

Considering himself freed of unwanted plans, Stan dips outside and leans against the wall. He flips through his contacts before landing on his mother’s name and hitting the button to call her. It dials for just a second before she picks up.

“Hello, Stanley? Are you okay? I’m just about to set off.”

“I’m fine, Mom. I was thinking that I could stick around a little longer? I’ll get the bus home tonight. I have some stuff I need to do...?” His voice rises a little at the end of the sentence, unsure of the story he wants to commit to.

“Are you sure? Does the bus usually run this late? You know, I can pick you up later if you want. You know what? I’ll just pick you up. Call me when you need me, okay?”

The barrage of questions stuns Stan for a moment, and he stutters out, "O-oh, okay, sure. I won’t be too late. Sorry. Thanks.”

“I love you, Stanley. See you later.” Sharon’s voice crackles with static, but her declaration is still heard.

“Yeah. I love you too. Bye.”

With that, he hangs up and heads back inside. The others are halfway changed already, babbling mindlessly amongst themselves about what’s on TV tonight or who’s hosting the next big house party.

Stan wishes he had half as many troubles as them. The only thing occupying his mind right now is huge and horrible; it feels like it’s filling up his head and oozing through the cracks in his skull to try and escape.

The boys wave goodbye as Stan finishes changing, and the changing room falls quiet as they depart. Their chatter grows fainter as they move down the hallway, and Stan finishes changing soon after. He fills the silence by humming to himself, folding and packing his uniform into his skate bag, and zipping it shut. He hoists the bag onto his shoulder, grabs his jacket and stick, and makes his way back out to the rink with bated breath.

It feels like Stan’s heart is going to burst out of his chest. It beats against his ribs like a drum, so loud that he can hear it over his sneakers against the floor. His palms are clammy, his stick slipping uncomfortably in his sweaty grasp.

The nerves don't go away when he sees Kyle, still in the same seat, holding the same textbook. In fact, Stan notices them getting worse. His knees feel weak as he climbs the concrete stairs, and he only seems to be able to breathe once he’s stood at the end of the row of seats Kyle occupies. His heart still throbs.

“Hi.” Stan manages to eventually say. Kyle looks up, confused, but his features soften slightly upon seeing who the voice belongs to.

“Hi?” Kyle replies, with uncertainty leaking into his tone. His eyes are all over Stan’s rigid posture and fidgeting hands.

“Are you okay?” He adds, and all Stan can do in response is nod and force a smile.

He doesn’t dare speak. Not when what he wants to say is so delicate. Kyle returns a small and awkward smile before turning back to his work.

Stan stumbles on his words. “I… I actually wanted to talk to you. Sorry, I’m really nervous. I don’t wanna fuck this up."

Kyle stops reading for a moment to face Stan again. He takes this as a signal to sit, perching on the edge of the seat next to Kyle and dumping his skate bag at his feet. His heart is racing impossibly fast now. He wrings his hands together and swears he can feel a pool of sweat forming between them.

Kyle doesn’t seem to notice or care for Stan’s anxiety. “Go on.”

“I was thinking, like a lot, after we talked on Saturday.”

“Dangerous.” Kyle cuts in suddenly before biting back a laugh. “Sorry, I had to. I’m listening.”

Stan scowls, but he’s determined to get his point across and picks up his train of thought. “I know you’re scared, and I know you want to pretend like you’re not, but we really have to do something about Vaughn.”

Kyle blanches. His eyes drift away from Stan as he continues to speak, frown deepening and hands clasping tighter around his book.

“It’s not right what he did to you, and he can’t just get away with that. Especially since he's begun to do the same to the guys. I don’t really have, like, a plan. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I can do to help you.”

Kyle’s eyebrows furrow in displeasure. He doesn’t look up.

“I don’t need you to help me. I told you on Saturday. I can’t do anything anyway.”

“But you can. I don’t get why you keep saying that.”

Kyle’s eyes are steely and furious when they lock with Stan’s. He has to take a sharp breath, while Kyle’s focus on him remains unbroken.

“You really don’t get it. I know better than anyone how he works and what he’s like. He will fucking destroy you if you try and get in his way.”

Stan hates the way Kyle's voice wavers when he speaks of Vaughn. Hates the way his hands become useless, fingers interlocking to try and stop them from shaking. He wishes he could be a protector for him once more, but Kyle would never want that again. Still, he wants to try.

“But what if we manage to do something? I’m not being funny, Kyle; he hurt you. How are you just okay with letting him get away with that?” Stan leans towards Kyle as he speaks, almost begging for a change of heart. All Kyle does is look away again, not letting himself be swayed.

“I’m not okay with it, idiot. It’s just... argh, I don’t know. I’ll be out of this shithole town in two years, anyway. I’ll never have to see him again.”

Stan chews on his lip, letting Kyle’s words rewind in his head like a well-loved cassette. He knows exactly how he wants to respond, just not how to say it. As Kyle turns his attention back to his book, the thoughts keep playing back in Stan’s head until they unravel, the delicate material spilling out of its casing until it overflows through his words.

“Don’t you wanna just beat the shit out of Vaughn sometimes? Doesn’t seeing him get to keep his job and treat your brother like shit ever just make you mad?” He asks. Stan knows Kyle, and he knows that his anger is seething and unforgiving. However, the Kyle in front of him, with nervous hands and tired eyes, is not the same. The callous question, something so out of the blue for Stan to think or say, seems to shake him for a moment.

“Yeah, I guess. I can't, though. When he's around Ike, it's as if my entire body freezes.” Kyle looks down at his sweater, more dejected than angry. "Besides, I can't do anything with a fucked-up leg, especially with him getting in my way at every opportunity."

Stan sighs. He’s getting nowhere with this.

“Seriously, I want to help you. If I ever thought for a second that this could end badly for you, I wouldn’t even suggest it.”

That declaration is enough to tear Kyle from his book again.

“You… You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Stan's words are full of sincerity and honesty. It’s enough that Kyle’s eyes brighten in a way they haven’t in years. Filled with something akin to hope, Stan feels his heart weaken at the sight.

“I think this is crazy.” Kyle finally replies, still wringing his hands, “You don’t even have a plan.”

“I’ll think of one.” Stan says this with flimsy confidence and not a clue in the world as to how he would even start to plan something as daring as this.

“I just can’t see it working out. Like, I don’t know if I wanna get dragged into this.”

“We can think of something where you don’t have to do anything.” Stan suggests with a smile, but the hope in Kyle’s eyes is already gone.

“No. Just… just stop talking. Or leave me alone. I don’t want to think about this.” Kyle says, his brows knitted and his knuckles white. So Stan stops, twiddling his thumbs, as Kyle turns back to his textbook.

He then notices that Kyle isn’t bouncing his leg - such a small, inconsequential detail, but one that only Stan would ever notice about Kyle. He sees things others don’t, through auburn-coloured lenses and attentiveness towards him. He’s still, and it’s scary, unfamiliar, even - Stan can recall many nights of cramming before important tests where Kyle had been bouncing his leg at a million miles per minute.

“Are you really working?” He asks.

“Huh?” Kyle pauses, perplexed by the bizarre statement. "Fuck off, dude. Don’t piss me off.”

“No, like, you’re not bouncing your leg. You used to do it all the time when you were studying, remember?”

Kyle is silent for a moment, his features pulled into a look of displeasure. It's like he’s remembering something he maybe doesn’t want to.

“Oh. Yeah. Guess I kicked that habit.” He rolls his eyes slightly as he says it before turning back to his work.

They both fall silent. A Zamboni slowly makes its way onto the rink, smoothing out the ice in front of them. Stan eventually finds himself leaning over Kyle's shoulder, watching as the latter solves some complex physics equations. As Kyle scribbles with ease, Stan responds with quiet, impressed sounds.

He doesn’t see Kyle trying to hold back a smile. Stan simply watches, awestruck, as Kyle moves onto the next sum.

“What the fuck. How the hell are you so smart?” He remarks. Kyle is now unable to hide his slightly smug, soft smile.

“Oh, you know. Maybe it’s ‘cause I don’t rot my brain with shitty music.” It’s a teasing remark that sends Stan stumbling over his words for a moment, scrambling to defend himself from such an atrocious accusation.

“Hey! Take that back; I’ve seen your CD collection. It’s so much worse than mine!”

It’s Kyle’s turn to gasp, in an act of feigning indignancy.

“Oh, excuse me for liking the classics. Some of the stuff you show me is really bad. Makes my ears bleed.”

A bout of teasing is all it takes for the dam to break. They burst out laughing, unable to continue their phoney debate. Kyle is doubled over, and he puts his hands over his mouth to stifle his giggles. Growing up, he'd always been self-conscious about his raucous laugh. However, Stan’s head is thrown back, clutching his stomach, laughing as brightly as he always has. For a moment, things feel like they’re back to the way they used to be. Just the two of them, saying nothing of value to the most important person in the world.

It truly sets in here that Stan doesn’t want to lose this again. Growing up with Kyle and always having him nearby, tangible, and real, he understands why he took it all for granted. Losing Kyle felt like losing a part of himself; each unanswered phone call and avoided eye contact in the hallway was just another part of Stan dying. It felt like physical pain, like burns streaking over his body as his guilt worsened.

It doesn’t quite feel like healing. Kyle is still too uptight, and Stan doesn’t dare get close. He used to be touchy; there wasn’t a moment when they were younger where Stan didn’t have a hand resting on Kyle’s waist or an arm slung over his shoulder. Of course, they were teased relentlessly for it, but it didn’t matter - they didn’t understand that Stan and Kyle weren’t just best friends, that they were something more, something untouchable. They didn’t have to understand. It was something for Stan and Kyle only, and it was something that was supposed to last forever.

Stan thinks that, maybe, if his nonexistent plan works, something will shift. That they can go back to how they were and preserve something once lost, and that Kyle will finally have his peace. Balance will be restored, and their natural orbit will resume. For now, he can only hope.

The moment is shattered by a bored-looking staff member climbing the stairs.

“You guys need to leave. We’re closing up.” They say, in a drawling tone that could send Stan to sleep.

“Shit, sorry. Lost track of time. We’re going.” Kyle replies, beginning to stuff his books back in his bag and reaching for the handle of his walking stick. Stan nods in agreement, standing up and slinging the strap of his bag over his body. Kyle follows suit, and they mumble apologies as they pass the staff member and make their way to the lobby.

Kyle is about to pass through the door when he realises Stan isn’t following. He’s rooting through his pockets, eventually pulling out his phone to dial a number. It takes him a few attempts - his fingers are too uncoordinated for such small buttons - but it eventually begins to ring. Kyle simply watches as Stan paces the lobby, the boy growing more anxious with each second that passes without an answer.

“You okay?” He inquires, Stan shooting to attention. He laughs nervously, pointing to his phone and eventually letting it drop when Sharon doesn’t pick up. His mind can’t help but cycle through all the worst-case scenarios and what it may mean for him if he does make it home tonight.

“Yeah, yeah, um, Mom won’t pick up.” He replies, trying to be as vague as possible in his answer. Stan knows the anxiety is showing on his face. He doesn’t want to confess to Kyle the terrible things his brain is telling him right now, either.

“Oh, you need a ride? I can take you.” Kyle simply states. It’s not filled with judgement - no invasive questions about why a seventeen-year-old who definitely has his licence can’t just drive himself home.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to. I’ll get the bus, or something, really…” Stan trails off after a moment, running out of mediocre excuses. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s quite the contrary - now that he can, Stan wants to spend as much time with Kyle as possible. But he’s afraid of slipping back into old habits, afraid of turning Kyle away once more. Stan has never been more determined to preserve a friendship.

“Dude, seriously, just come on. You literally live next door.” Stan can feel his face growing hot as Kyle turns on his heel, his finger tapping impatiently against the handle of his cane.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Thank you.”

He breaks into a short jog to catch up with Kyle. The cold air hits them as the door slides open, and the pair of them are quick to cross the parking lot towards Kyle’s car. Stan notices a considerable dent in the back bumper as he makes his way to the passenger door, attempting to stifle his laughter.

“Whoa, who did that?” He asks with a sly grin, gesturing behind them as they climb into their seats. Kyle throws him a daggered look, seemingly knowing exactly what Stan is referring to.

“Shut up.” He replies, firing up the engine and moving the gear stick over to reverse.

“No, you have to tell me now.”

“I don’t have to tell you. I don’t have to give you a ride, either.” Kyle’s tone is snappy, but it’s clear from his face that he’s not really annoyed.

“It was you, wasn’t it? What, you hit a deer or something?” Stan asks. Kyle remains silent as they pull out onto the road.

“Kyle...” Stan says in a sing-song tone as the others’ knuckles grow white around the wheel.

“Just shut the fuck up! I hit a lamppost, okay?!” Kyle exclaims after a moment. Stan can’t hold back his laughter anymore, howling as Kyle’s face grows a shade of red bright enough to rival his hair.

“No way! That is fucking gold, dude!” Stan manages to say so between fits of giggles.

“Stop laughing! I don’t fucking see you driving yourself home!” Kyle says, before Stan begins to choke on his giggles, smile falling just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Low blow, dude. I was just joking.” Stan replies, a little more sour now.

“Sorry. I thought you already had your licence, though.” Kyle says, quieter now. There’s a hint of guilt leaking into his voice.

“Oh, yeah, I do.” Stan hopes Kyle will drop it now. The confirmation is out there.

The silence is short-lived. Kyle Broflovski does not know how to quit.

“So why don’t you drive then?”

It hangs in the space between them for a moment, the roar of the engine being the only thing to be heard. The question holds no harshness, neither Randy’s bite nor Ike’s inquisitiveness. It’s just Kyle.

Stan isn’t exactly sure what to say. He can’t bluff his way out of it, but he’s inclined by nature to spill his heart out to Kyle. To cut himself open, peel himself back to allow Kyle to see everything about him.

“Um, well, it was a while ago now. I’d only just gotten my licence like, a couple months before. My… my Dad, erm, he was… he…” Stan pauses, fumbling over his words. But Kyle doesn’t push; he doesn’t say a word.

He just drives.

After a moment, Stan finds himself able to continue with his story. “He was picking me up from somewhere; I-I don’t remember where. But I didn’t have the car, for whatever reason. And he was fucking drunk.” Kyle gives him a sympathetic side-eye as he spits out the last part.

“I tried to tell him to just let me drive us, but he was insistent. Ended up going into a fucking tree and made me swear not to tell Mom. But she found out anyway. I… It kinda put me off driving. It’s so fucking stupid, I know. I’m sorry I’m making you run around for me like this.” Stan’s hands reach up to cover his eyes. He can’t see Kyle’s eyes wandering over to him periodically before they shift back to the road.

“I don’t think it’s stupid. Sometimes bad things happen, and we don’t know how to cope with them. Like… I dunno; I haven’t tried a triple axel since my fall. Stupid, right? But you get why I haven’t, like how I get why you don’t drive even though you don’t - shit, I’m rambling. Sorry, I’m probably making no sense.”

The engine is there once again to fill the silence. Kyle’s words are an odd source of comfort; he’d never been an emotional type when he was younger, often opting to shut out any weakness. Stan thinks that maybe it’s their age that’s made Kyle wiser. He shudders at the thought of Vaughn being responsible for his current state.

“I get you. No, it… it helps a lot to think of it that way. Thanks, man. You’re so smart.” Stan smiles.

“If you say so.”

They pull up on the sidewalk, in line with the fence that separates the Marshes' and Broflovskis’ yards. A lamppost above them leaks light into the car, illuminating the soft ringlets of Kyle’s hair and highlighting the sharp bridge of his nose.

Stan can’t help but stare. He barely even registers that Kyle is speaking to him.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah? That… That’d be nice, I think.” Kyle says quietly. Stan has to take a moment to process it.

“Oh, yeah, sure, dude! Awesome! Thanks for the ride.” Stan beams as he unclips himself and grabs his bag and stick. He opens the door and steps out, standing in the entry for a moment. Kyle simply looks at him, not asking him to leave.

“I’ll think of something, promise. We’ll do something about Vaughn.” Stan declares. Kyle looks away.

“This again? Stan, I told you, it’s crazy. Please don’t do anything stupid.” Kyle’s tone is almost pleading.

“I won’t, I won’t. I promise.”

Kyle raises a dubious eyebrow.

“… Just fuck off. I wanna go to bed.” He settles on saying, which causes Stan to laugh.

“Of course, of course. The King needs his beauty sleep, right?”

“Oh my God, shut up.” It’s said with such embarrassment that Stan can’t help but chuckle again as he closes the car door, shouting more words of thanks and farewell as he walks towards his front door.

Stan’s heart feels full and warm. For tonight, he can ignore the fighting downstairs; his mind is racing with Kyle-related thoughts.

It’s almost nauseating.

The next day, Stan goes to school accompanied by thoughts of red ringlets and toothy grins. He sees visions of Kyle passing him in the halls, sitting a few rows in front of him in English, all in places where he most definitely isn’t present.

Any ideas of actually paying attention in class are thrown aside in favour of finding a perfect solution to this problem. In Biology, Stan finds himself musing over a million different ways in which to avenge Kyle, conjuring convoluted plans in his mind that earn him a scolding from his teacher for not paying attention. By lunch, he comes to realise that all his ideas are impossible, and by the end of the day, he’s still at square one.

By the time evening rolls around, Stan is still drawing blanks. He’s sprawled out on top of his bed with music playing at a low volume, racking his brains. Kenny bursting into his room is enough to pull him away from his train of thought, accompanied by a grumpy expression and still wearing his work clothes.

“Dude, I was knocking for ages. Your dad looked so pissed off when he let me in. I thought you were pussying out on me.” Kenny says, letting his backpack slip to the carpeted floor. Stan remembers then that he and Kenny had been talking about piercing his helix for weeks, and that this had been the only day between them that they had the free time to do it.

“Shit, sorry. I forgot I even invited you over. And no, I’m not being a pussy, I still want you to pierce it.” Kenny raises an eyebrow. He makes his way to the bed, throwing himself onto it next to Stan and letting himself sink into the mattress stomach-first. Stan can see the exhaustion in his face at this proximity, with Kenny’s tired eyes falling shut.

“Are you okay?” Kenny asks, after a moment, “Like, you’ve been super spaced out for the last few days. You were out of it in class, too.”

Stan takes a moment to think about how he should answer. He can’t exactly spill Kyle’s life story to Kenny. But he can’t admit that a boy who hasn’t cared about him in years is currently taking up all his thoughts.

“I’m fine. Just thinkin’ about stuff.”

“You worried about the match against Adams County? That’s not for another two weeks yet, man.” Kenny’s eyes flutter open as Stan adjusts his position to face his friend more comfortably. When the realisation of what Kenny has said hits him, his eyes widen in disbelief.

“It’s that soon?! Oh my god, I completely forgot. Are you sure?” He inquires, eliciting a laugh from Kenny.

“Yes, it is. You are out of it, Stan!” He replies with an artful smile.

“Shit, I should probably talk to Coach tomorrow, then. We haven’t practised for this at all! We gotta-” He’s cut off promptly by Kenny’s hand sliding over his mouth and holding it shut.

“Dude, chill. You’ve seen how well we’ve been doing with Ike; we’ll win this easily.”

Stan can’t help but feel a little reassured by Kenny’s words. When they're accompanied by his winner's smile and kind eyes, he knows he's not just being nice.

After a second, Kenny seems to remember something. He removes his hand from Stan’s mouth, sitting up with an excited expression.

“Oh, dude, speaking of Broflovski, Kyle came into work today.”

It’s Stan’s turn to sit up. A soft smile appears on his face. “No way, that’s sick. Did he say anything to you?”

“We talked for a while, actually. He was picking up his prescription from the pharmacy across the street. I don’t think he knew I worked at the store. It was nice, though. He apologised for just kinda disappearing, and then we talked a lot about college and stuff.” Then, Kenny leans in, closing the distance between him and Stan with a boyish grin.

“I think he was into my piercings. Couldn’t stop looking at ‘em, dude.” He says it in a low tone, watching carefully as Stan’s cheeks turn red.

He can’t say it’s something he ever expected to come out of Kenny’s mouth.

“You can’t just assume that. Maybe he was just being nice.” Stan mumbles. He can feel his cheeks growing hot as he says it. He knows Kenny isn’t convinced by it in the slightest.

“Bullshit, Stan. You didn’t see the way he was looking at me.” Kenny pulls away from Stan’s face again, almost as an act of mercy. “It was real cool, though. He seemed pretty interested in my college plans.”

Stan’s face isn’t showing any signs of cooling. He’s silent as he shuffles off the bed, padding over to the stereo to change the CD in it. The music stops for a second, and the chill, quiet melodies are quickly replaced by more energetic rock music. He can’t quite place the feelings that have arisen within the past few minutes. His stomach is twisting, and his mind is straying with visions of Kyle and piercings.

“Sick, dude. God, why’d you have to say that to me? I’m gonna look like such a fucking dork letting you pierce my ear, now.”

Kenny barks out a laugh.

“You’re gonna look great. Maybe Kyle will like it.”

Stan thinks he might melt. “Shut up! Just pierce it, dude!”

After Kenny has left for the night, Stan finds himself in front of the mirror. He’s got his head slightly angled and his hair tucked back, just enough for him to see his reflection and enough for his ear to be visible.

His piercings, he thinks, look great. Kenny had gotten a little too trigger-happy, giving Stan two helix piercings next to each other instead of the single one he’d initially wanted. They’re a little red and sting like hell, presumably from Kenny’s far-from-professional methods, but Stan can’t seem to stop smiling.

There’s a part of him deep down that hopes Kyle notices them. Another, more shameful side of him, thst lurks deep beneath song lyrics and buried desires, that hopes Kyle likes them too.

After a while, Stan wanders downstairs for food. Randy is on the couch watching television, reeking of beer and musk. He scowls at the sight and tries to beeline for the kitchen unnoticed. However, Randy is a little more alert than Stan had first assumed.

“You. Get back here.” He says it in a deep and tired voice. Stan freezes, heart pounding, the kitchen a stone's throw away. He moves back a few paces until he’s standing in front of his father, nervous fingers twiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“What do you want, Dad?” Stan asks. He can feel Randy’s eyes boring into him, despite his obvious inebriation.

“The fuck is that in your ear?”

“Kenny pierced it. What’s the big deal? I’ve had my lobes done for years.”

Randy’s face twists into an expression of disgust.

“You look like a fucking faggot.”

Stan feels like he’s received a blow to the stomach. The humiliation is quick to set in, rising and bubbling within him like molten lava. It sends his head spinning.

“Good thing it’s not your piercing, then.” Stan mutters before leaving the sitting room and his disgusting father.

He doesn’t even feel hungry anymore. Stan storms back to his room, burying himself beneath his blankets, and starts to blast his music through his headphones. He thinks about how stupid he is, forever hoping for more and even just entertaining the idea.

His skin is crawling. He feels sick. This time, it’s not in such a nice way.

Chapter Text

On the Monday before the boys are supposed to play Adams County, Stan fails an important biology test. It doesn’t come as a surprise to him. He’s spent the last few evenings talking endlessly to Kyle about everything and nothing, rather than studying for his big test.

He'd completely forgotten he'd taken the test until it’s dumped on his desk. The paper is covered in red ink, a stark contrast to the very few scribbles made by his own hand the Friday before, and his failure is marked at the top by a huge ringed F.

Kenny leans over from the desk next to him, wincing when he sees Stan’s staggeringly low score.

“Dude, did you even try?” He whispers.

Stan runs a nonchalant hand through his hair. He can see Kenny’s score from here: top marks because everything his friend does is effortless, every step taken to ensure a better future for himself and his sister. Kenny’s always accepted that it would have to be him to break the torturous cycle that he’d been thrust into from birth, and he’s expressed many times that he’s determined to keep Karen away from it all too.

Stan can’t say the same for himself. He feels like he’s spent the last seventeen years simply following in Kyle’s footsteps, doing everything for him, serving him, and protecting him. While Kenny managed to find a balance between hockey, work, and school, Stan feels like he’s barely keeping afloat under the weight of all his responsibilities. They’ve always been in different places, where all he has is a dream and Kenny has endless part-time jobs and college savings he’s been building up since before Stan even knew the value of a dollar.

Besides, Kenny also has Marjorine, who lives three states over with her Aunt Nellie and seems to be very content with her. Stan just has whatever this is with Kyle. It's hardly a friendship, but it's also not much more.

“I just don’t get all this stupid shit. Who the hell’s even gonna use it in a proper job?” Stan grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. The F grade stares back at him. He has to unfold his arms and turn the paper over after a moment.

“I’m gonna use it. I think it’s all pretty interesting.” Kenny replies. Stan frowns.

“At least it’s out of the way. We can focus on the match now.” But Stan can’t exactly say he’s been thinking about that either. He places his folded arms on his desk, letting his head fall into them. He's found himself to be exhausted recently, trying to split his time between skating, school, and now Kyle.

Kenny’s expression is still slightly concerned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t understand it? I would’ve helped you study.” He says it plainly, with no judgement attached. Kenny knows he’s better at biology than Stan; he just doesn’t flaunt it around.

“I dunno, I just didn’t have time. Got a lot of other shit going on.”

Kenny looks like he ‘s about to push for an answer before ultimately deciding against it. His mouth is set in a firm line, eyebrows furrowed.

“Okay. Sure.”

Stan doesn’t really care that he’s failed this test. It’s the first one he’s flunked all year after working to at least keep his grades somewhat afloat, but somehow, right now, while Kyle is in trouble and while Kyle needs him, he couldn’t care less. Stan still has no ideas on how he’s going to save him, and he’s running out of time. Biology is never going to help with that.

He just hates the mundanity of school. It’s nothing like the excitement of the rink - it’s all old faces - no-one new, no-one interesting.

No-one like Kyle.

Stan manages to get through the rest of his classes, though just barely. They’re fairly easy; nothing is as difficult for him as biology. He can at least zone out a little in English, and he spends most of the period entertaining desperate solutions for Kyle between scribbling notes on dramatic, confusing poetry.

His teacher hands out homework at the end of the period. Stan doesn’t listen to the instructions on how to complete it. His mind buzzes with thoughts of only Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, and then he’s flipping over the homework sheet and writing down more scattered words until the bell rings.

He goes home on the bus and thinks some more. Kenny sits next to him, occasionally attempting to make conversation but giving up when Stan doesn’t respond for the third time.

That evening, there is no practice. Stan finds himself poking at his food, shifting the vegetables around his plate as the rest of his family tucks into their meals. He hasn’t spoken to Kyle in at least a day now. He’s still reeling a little from how their last conversation had ended.

Everyone has already left the rink. Staff are sweeping up and doing their odd chores before closing. Stan and Kyle are standing in front of the only vending machine in the building - a sad thing with flickering lights and home-brand food inside. Kyle is leaning against his cane with a sly smile on his face.

“Ten bucks if you eat it.” Kyle says, pointing at a limp sandwich on the fourth shelf.

“I didn’t say I was that hungry. ‘Sides, I want at least twenty if I’m gonna do it.” Stan replies.

“You think I’m made of money, Marsh?”

“You think I wanna risk getting sick for ten bucks? Dream on.” Stan scoffs. When Kyle turns to face him, he's still staring at the sandwich, contemplating it, because it's for Kyle's entertainment. He doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t notice the attentive eyes trained on his profile.

He stiffens up when he feels the very ends of Kyle’s fingers brush back the strands of limp hair obscuring his ear. They then move over his piercings, ever so softly, just enough to make his ear sting at the contact.

“You… when did you, uh, get that done?”

It’s the way that Kyle stumbles over his words - carefully, as if he were falling on ice - that gets Stan. When he turns to face Kyle, he pulls his hand away sharply, as if he’d been scalded. There's a faint blush coating his cheeks.

“What’s that?” Stan asks quietly.

“Your ear. You didn’t have those two done before.” Kyle mutters, embarrassment leaking into his words.

Stan’s hand reaches up to trace his helix piercings, where Kyle’s brief touch still lingers. There’s something in his stomach, seizing and twisting in the best way possible.

“Oh, these? Kenny did them for me. You like ‘em?”

Kyle turns away. He focuses on that sandwich again, green eyes dancing over it, the curve of his nose twitching just slightly as he muses over his answer.

“You’d suit more. Though I don’t know if there’s a limit in hockey, you know, for safety. But you would.”

Stan fiddles with the hem of his shirt with his other hand. He’s smiling giddily, even though Kyle isn’t looking.

“I’ll think about it.” He says, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the faint beginnings of a smile spreading across Kyle’s freckled face too.

“Stanley, I’m talking to you.”

Sharon's persistent and verbal prodding yanks him cruelly from his thoughts.

“Stanley? Are you okay?”

Stan has to blink a few times. His eyes move over a sour Shelley, prodding at vegetables she doesn’t like, and over a dishevelled Randy, who had insisted on eating with everybody tonight. The atmosphere is tense, and Stan is hesitant to make himself known within it.

“Yeah, I’m good. Mom.”

“I was just asking how you did on that biology test. You didn’t seem very worried over it.” Sharon smiles kindly, and Stan’s heart stops for a moment.

“I… ah, fuck, I flunked it.” Stan sighs defeatedly. He can’t lie to his mom, but seeing the way her face drops makes him wish he could.

“Oh, what? I thought we were trying this year, honey.” Her eyebrows are twisted in concern; she’s not mad, but Stan feels like she is. He sinks ashamedly into his chair, pushing his plate away.

“I was- I mean, I am. This is the first test I’ve failed all year. Bio’s so stupid, I don’t get it.” Stan mutters. Sharon reaches over the table to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. This somehow makes it all worse.

“The problem is you’re not applying yourself.” Randy butts in, mouth full of food. Stan can hear him chewing and feels frustration immediately beginning to bubble up inside him.

“Oh, be nice. You know how hard school can be, especially now that Stanley has hockey too.” Her voice is stern, and her hand tightens around his shoulder. It’s not comforting at all.

“Bullshit. See, Sharon, this is the problem. Now that Stan’s not got that summer job anymore, he thinks he gets to be lazy. I said from the beginning that this hockey shit was a bad idea, he’ll get no real experience from it, but does anyone ever listen to me? No!”

Stan hates the way they talk about him like he’s not there, like he’s just a thing with no feelings or thoughts. He knows he’s been trying. He doesn’t get why his father can’t see that. Kyle hadn’t exactly helped with his struggles, but his presence alone had made them easier to cope with.

“Quiet, Randy!” Sharon says sharply. She pulls her hand away from Stan’s shoulder, and he finds himself missing the sudden absence of it.

“God, this is the fucking problem! You always side with him; he’s never going to fucking learn unless you stop coddling him.”

“Hey, don’t talk to Mom like that.” Stan interjects with a bite, and it’s the sole trigger for all hell to break loose.

They argue their way through the rest of dinner, and it still doesn’t seem to end when their plates are cleared and there should be no more words to be said. Randy continues to make his jabbing remarks, and Stan is finally irritated enough that he fights back. With each insult comes a newfound motivation, born partly out of spite and partly out of some deep-seated need that Stan can't quite pin down.

(He feels that same need again at practice, swelling in size every time Vaughn looks down his nose at him. It’s the same all week: Vaughn remarks on his incapability, and sloppiness, and Stan finds himself shrinking further and further. Everything he does is met with opposition, whether it be at home or at the rink. He feels like he’s losing an uphill battle, where he’s leading an army consisting of only himself.)

Stan only briefly entertains the option that maybe the two of them are right. He doesn’t have the time to do much more than that. As the game draws closer and the stress piles higher, so do the expectations from Vaughn, and the torrid insults and scathing defamation only become more frequent.

So Stan tries to fix it.

He knows that if the team all tries, they can make the effort to keep Vaughn at bay. He begins by increasing the intensity of their warmups and, during drills, by testing their skills to their limits. He does it without so much of a smile because he’s serious about this.

Everyone needs to know how dedicated he is. To Kyle, to the team, to everything that’s important, and to everyone he loves.

If a few scornful glances from Cartman go unnoticed, it’s fine. If Kenny’s almost late to his night shift because he and Stan just had to get this tactic right, it’s fine. If Ike can barely stand straight, that’s fine, too. Stan has everything riding on this and more, and he can’t afford for it to be ruined. It’s all for the game.

There’s now only a week until the Adams County game, and Stan knows he’s running out of time. He’s had well over a week and still has nothing - no plan for Kyle, no strategy, not a clue in the world. That’s not so fine.

He’s resorted to pacing in his room with his loudest music blasting at full volume. It earns him annoyed protests from everybody, but he doesn’t care. When the CD ends, he just plays it again, much to the frustration of the rest of the household.

It eventually comes to a head when Shelley bursts into his room one afternoon with half-straightened hair and a stormy expression. In one clenched fist, she’s holding Sparky’s lead. She thrusts it at Stan, standing stiff in the doorway as if she’s holding back the urge to strangle him with it.

“Please leave. Just so I can get some peace. You are so fucking annoying.” She says, and she leaves his room before Stan can even protest her demands.

With a groan, Stan flicks off his stereo. The music cuts out instantly, with silence flooding in. Stan’s found himself hating the quiet recently.

He slips on his jacket as he’s walking downstairs. Sharon is cooking something, and Sparky is sleeping on the couch. Randy is nowhere to be seen. It’s at least a little reassuring, he thinks, as he clips Sparky’s lead to his collar. Since their fight at dinner last week, there’s always been something that’s prompted more arguments and cutting remarks whenever they’ve been within each other's proximity. Stan doesn’t know if he could deal with that right now.

He finds the wind has picked up a little when he steps outside with his old companion. It’s cold, a telltale sign that bad weather is soon to follow.

Stan’s hoping for a good snowfall this year, despite the frigid temperatures. He shivers a little as they walk down the driveway, and he wishes he’d put Kyle’s sweatshirt on. He’d lost his only decently warm hoodie, so he'd decided to hang onto Kyle’s a little longer until he found it.

By the time he reaches the sidewalk, Stan already knows he doesn’t want to be alone. It’s just out of sheer boredom; the team had been blowing Stan off in favour of more reckless activities recently, so he’s found himself simply entertaining his own company. He can only go so far with that until he finds himself losing his mind just slightly and before he apparently pisses off Shelley.

Subconsciously, he makes his way up the Broflovskis' perfectly manicured yard, knocking on their door. Ike answers, his small face lighting up when he sees Stan.

“Hi.” He says, while sounding unusually tired. Ike spots Sparky after a moment, crouching down to pet him. “Are you taking him for a walk? Can I come?”

Stan chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I was coming to ask. Shelley kicked me out for playing music too loud, but I’m bored as fuck.”

Ike’s eyes widen as he straightens up. "Sure, let me go grab a jacket.”

He races upstairs, and Stan can’t help but laugh at the younger boy’s enthusiasm. It’s probably a little strange, but he wonders what it would be like to still be that naive. With no worries in the world and nobody to risk disappointing.

After a moment of waiting, Kyle wanders into the hall from the sitting room. His voice floats with him, and he sounds as if he’s just woken up.

“Jesus, Ike, it’s freezing! Close the door!” He mutters as he walks towards the door, head down, messy hair covering his eyes.

It’s only when Kyle sees battered sneakers and dog paws that he shoots to attention, startled at seeing Stan. He offers an awkward wave, and Sparky also lifts his head upon seeing his old friend.

“Oh, hi.” Kyle says, his eyes wide with surprise. Soon enough, he manages to find his words: “Come on in. Did Ike leave you out there? He’s stupid, sorry.”

Stan gratefully steps into the Broflovskis’ house with Sparky in tow. He shuts the door behind him, and it suddenly becomes apparent that it’s just him and Kyle, alone.

He feels a little out of place in ripped jeans and scuffed shoes that don’t look nice against the soft, spotless carpet. Kyle is well wrapped up, despite how warm the house is, in thick, woollen socks and a big blue hoodie. The cool azure brings out the blazing orange of Kyle’s hair, and Stan swears up and down that it’s incandescent. Bright, burning ringlets that fall haphazardly across his head.

“Isn’t that my hoodie?” Stan says, finally, after what seems like an eternity. He realises that he’d been staring at Kyle, probably looking rather strange in the process. He supposes he didn’t really make it any better by asking such an odd question.

Kyle almost immediately explodes, his face turning crimson.

“No! Maybe. I don’t know. It just kinda appeared.” Stan can barely hold back his laughter as Kyle exclaims this, his voice dropping to an almost mortified mumble.

“Dude, it is mine. There’s the toothpaste I got on it.” He points to a stain on the hoodie - a long, dripping mark that’s smeared down the front. Kyle is practically melting, hiding his scorched face behind his hands.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I must’ve grabbed it by accident. You can have it back.”

Before he can fully pull it off, Stan stops him.

“No, no, keep it on. I still have your sweater, so we’re equal now.” He beams, and Kyle has to take a moment to fully process Stan’s words.

“Fine.” He replies bashfully, before pausing for a brief moment. “Thanks, though. It’s a warm hoodie. I probably would’ve fought to keep it anyway.”

Stan lets out a short laugh, and then the pair return to their awkward state of silence once more.

He thinks it’s strange how they can get along the way they used to, just for it all to come crashing down just moments later. Stan can only hope the stilted silences don’t mean anything bad. He’s trying the only way he knows how and has no idea if it’s even working.

“Ike and I are gonna go walk Sparky. You wanna come?” Stan asks hesitantly, after a minute of thought. He sees how Kyle holds himself - all too tightly - and how he seems to stiffen even more when Stan proposes his question.

“I don’t think you’d want me there. I’m not even a big walker.”

“Sure.” Stan says with a smirk. “I’d want you there. Even if you were all sweaty and gross and couldn’t walk a step more.”

“You’re sick.” Kyle replies, sticking his tongue out in disgust. Yet he moves towards his shoes, stuffing his feet in them, and reaches to unhook a jacket from the coat stand. Despite the height advantage Kyle has over Stan, the jacket smothers him.

Stan can barely tear his eyes away from Kyle. He watches everything the other does with careful eyes, gripping tightly to Sparky’s lead as Kyle reaches for his walking stick, muttering something under his breath about Ike’s whereabouts.

As if on cue, Ike bounds down the stairs soon after, bundled up tight in an old coat - probably one of Kyle’s hand-me-downs.

“Wait, you’re coming?” Ike says when he catches sight of Kyle.

“Yes. Do you not want me to?” He retorts. Stan swears he sees a flash of hurt pass over Kyle’s freckled face before his eyebrows return to their perpetually irritated state.

“No. Did I say that? ‘Cause I don’t care if you come or not.”

“Jesus, fine. Glad to know I got an invitation from you to hang out with Stan.” Kyle snaps, folding his arms across his chest as they step out of the door. Stan laughs a little awkwardly, hesitant to intervene in the two brothers’ quarrel.

“Hey, Ike, do you wanna take Sparky’s leash?” Stan asks, extending the leather out to the smaller boy.

“Yes. But will he pull me over?”

“No, he’s too old for that. He can’t even lift a twig anymore.” Stan replies as Ike takes the leash, his eyes shining with newfound responsibility. Sparky almost immediately warms to Ike, staying close by his side. The pair wander ahead, leaving Stan and Kyle trailing behind. They walk together at a pace comfortable enough for Kyle to keep up, not speaking and simply taking in their surroundings.

Even with their distance, Stan can hear Ike having a one-sided conversation with Sparky. He thinks it’s about the weather, from what he can just barely hear, though he can’t be sure.

He turns to face Kyle after a moment, simply basking in the sight of him. As the sun sets over the mountains, it casts light on Kyle’s face, igniting his hair and causing his eyes to shine in a way they haven’t in a long time. His breath spills from his frowning lips in small clouds, and he doesn’t move to meet Stan’s eyes.

“You still think this was a good idea? We can’t even keep up with your million-year-old dog.” Kyle pouts as Ike and Sparky trudge along even further ahead.

“Of course. I don’t care if we’re being slow; I like spending time with you.” Stan says, leaning a little closer to gently bump his shoulder with Kyle’s. “It’s a nice break from practice. I think I’ve been driving the guys a little insane, to be honest.”

Kyle’s mouth is set in a grim line. “Yeah, I heard this game means a lot to you guys. You've... you’ve been working hard, from what I’ve seen.”

“Mhm. It’ll pay off, though, and hopefully keep Vaughn off our backs for a bit. I just wish the guys saw it the same way I do.”

Kyle falls silent. Stan’s unsure of how to fill it, turning to face forward.

“Are you still planning something to get him fired?” Kyle suddenly asks. Hesitance leaks into his voice, and Stan can tell that his eyebrows are knit tightly without even looking at him.

“Well, yeah. This is important. I just don’t really know what to do, still.” He lets out a hollow laugh, but Kyle doesn’t return the sentiment.

“Seriously, you need to let this go, Stan. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I know what he’s like.” Kyle says softly. “I… I don’t need protection. I’ve been doing better with my skating; he hasn’t bothered me in weeks, and I-I’m fine. Things are coming together. I just wanna prove to him that I can do it without him, not open up some shitty can of worms.”

Stan can see through all the lies as clear as day. Kyle’s eyes are trained on the concrete, following the cracks as they walk. He knows he needs to do this and that there’s no other way; Kyle has to be saved.

“Yeah. Okay.” Though he knows that this isn’t the end of it. The tension seems to have left Kyle’s shoulders when Stan glances over at him once more. The colour seems to have returned to Kyle’s cheeks recently, and while his face is still thin and worn, there’s still a warmth to it that Stan can’t seem to tear his eyes away from.

“You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone, by the way. Nobody, not Vaughn, not even Craig. You’re amazing as it is.” He says it ever so softly, causing Kyle to turn and face him. His mouth hangs open slightly, like there are words there waiting to spill out.

“God, Stan, you make this shit so hard.” Kyle says, his mouth forming a slight smile.

“I do? Well, I’m not supposed to do that.” Stan muses, his shoulder knocking gently against Kyle’s once more.

“Wow. I can’t believe you’re allowed to captain the hockey team with that attitude.”

“I know! It’s great.” Stan grins. Kyle rolls his eyes.

Within their close proximity, he can feel the heat coming off Kyle. Their arms bump while they walk, the material of their coats rubbing awkwardly against each other. Somehow, it doesn’t matter. It’s not irritating at all.

Stan's pinky eventually finds Kyle's. After a few fumbled attempts, they soon intertwine. It’s so little, yet so much - Stan is so overwhelmed he feels like he’s going to simply keel over and puke. His hand is ice cold, as always, but Kyle’s is so warm and he can feel it trembling slightly. He’s unable to hide the giddy smile that sneaks onto his face, desperately trying to look anywhere but at Kyle. There’s no way he could ever face him like this. He still has a shred of dignity to protect, and eye contact would drive him crazy.

They walk around the block in a comfortable silence, their pinkies still locked tightly together. When he’s sure Kyle isn’t looking, Stan sneaks the occasional glance at him, his smile widening every time. Their eyes meet once, by accident, and both boys are quick to whip their heads away from each other.

It dawns on Stan here that, yeah, maybe Wendy was right. He has found what he was looking for. All along, it had been Kyle; there’s no beginning or end to it. Just Kyle Broflovski, with all his quirks and imperfections, like his funny smile with dimples that seem to cave his cheeks in and his bony fingers that Stan can feel every bump of as they brush against his own.

Then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, Ike begins to make his way back to the pair. Kyle’s finger quickly slips away from Stan’s, and their shoulders grow just a little further apart. His stomach sinks as cold air rushes to fill the space where Kyle once was, his hand suddenly feeling empty. Their eyes don’t meet again, but Stan thinks that maybe it’s a good thing. He fears he might simply melt if they do.

Sparky is flagging just a little behind Ike when the two pairs finally meet. Stan takes the leash back, smiling at Ike and ruffling his hair with his other hand. Sparky stays close by Ike’s side, occasionally turning to sniff at his hand curiously.

“Look, he really likes you.” Stan says, kneeling down to his dog’s level and letting out a short, sharp whistle he’d learnt years ago from his uncle. Sparky responds faithfully, padding over to his owner to allow him to wrap his arms around his neck. Ike stands over them both, stroking Sparky's coarse fur absentmindedly. It’s beginning to get dark now, as a streetlamp down the sidewalk flickers into life.

“He’s really well-behaved.” Ike remarks.

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s old as fuck. I bet Kyle will tell you how much of a shitbag he was when we were little.”

“Oh, dude, Sparky was so fun to play with.” Kyle chimes in. His voice sounds light, more chipper than usual, but Stan doesn’t dare look at him. He closes his eyes and buries his face in Sparky’s coat as Kyle tells Ike a story he’d long forgotten himself.

Kyle’s voice is nice. Stan thinks he could fall asleep listening to it. He’s missed hearing it and has discovered that he misses it even more when they can’t talk. Stan almost wishes that Kyle were a wind-up toy - one that he could twist a key into to start him talking. And when he stops, well, Stan would simply wind him up again and again, because he could never get tired of listening to Kyle, no matter what he talks about.

“Hey, we’re gonna go, now. Well, Ike’s already pissed off home.” Kyle says after a brief pause. Stan’s eyes flutter open to see Kyle crouched down at his level, smiling just slightly, like it’s only for his eyes. They’re close, too. He can hear Kyle’s short breaths every time he exhales.

“You were right, I guess. This was nice.” He adds. Stan lifts his head from Sparky’s neck, so Kyle can see his smile, too. He lets it fall forward after a moment, his forehead bumping softly with Kyle’s. The other boy lets out a small gasp, but doesn’t shy away from the contact.

They stay there for a moment, hearts throbbing, with Stan swearing he feels sparks where their skin touches. Up close, he can see how far Kyle’s freckles stretch across his nose and over his cheeks. His eyes are closed, while Stan’s are wide open, wanting to behold this sight in its full glory.

They’re soon quick to jerk back, red-faced, clumsily pulling themselves to their feet. Stan nearly trips over Sparky, but manages to stand with his feet flat on the ground.

“I-I’ll see you tomorrow, or something, yeah?” Stan asks, running a hand through his hair.

“Uh-huh. Sure. Bye.” Kyle replies, all too quickly, turning on his heel. Stan watches him walk home with a wide smile and dreamy eyes. He can still feel Kyle’s skin on his.

“He’s great, isn’t he, Sparks?” Stan asks the old dog.

Sparky tilts his head, before offering Stan a lick on his hand. It makes him laugh. It makes him realise that things can only get better from here.

The Adams County game is tomorrow. Stan is still without a plan. He’s been losing sleep, staying up until he can’t possibly keep his eyes open, and reaching into the darkest possible corners of his mind for something, anything, to work off. His plans have been getting increasingly desperate, with Stan having to scrap them before he can even entertain the idea of victory.

He can’t stop, though. There are people looking up to him and depending on him, and Stan knows that if he stops for even a moment, it’s over. Between dragging the team through crazed exercises, he’s constantly watching Vaughn, waiting for him to slip up to give Stan some ammunition.

But he doesn't - not for the entire week. Every move he makes is cold and deliberate, and Stan knows it. However, when Vaughn’s composure finally shatters, and it feels like the light at the end of a long, painful tunnel.

It comes when he’s not expecting it. He’s been berating Clyde’s form for what feels like an eternity when he overhears Vaughn becoming increasingly mad over something. When Stan and Clyde turn to see what the fuss is about, they’re greeted by the terrifying sight of their assistant coach looming over a diminishing Ike.

“How many times do I have to fucking tell you, Broflovski? Are you deaf or just retarded?” When Ike doesn’t respond, Vaughn only leans in closer. Stan can hear Cartman snickering at the display from somewhere else, too.

It’s scary. It’s humiliating as well. Stan knows what it’s like to be in Ike’s position - to be helpless while someone much stronger than you throws you reasons as to why you’re not good enough.

“You’re just like your brother, always wasting my goddamn time.”

Stan’s fists tighten. He can feel anger rising inside him for just a moment. The sensation of it shocks him a little. Stan Marsh is not an angry person and never has been. But here, seeing how Vaughn plays with Ike like he’s not just a kid, it pisses him off.

He wonders what it would be like if Vaughn could be humiliated in that way. If someone bigger and meaner than him were to point out all of his deepest insecurities, whether he’d simply laugh in their face or be reduced to a stuttering mess.

Kyle was disgraced by Vaughn. Now Ike is well on his way to sharing his brother’s fate. Stan doesn’t know how much longer he has until the rest of the team is next.

Maybe, just this once, it’d be right to give Vaughn a taste of his own medicine, Stan thinks. The world deserves to know who he truly is. They deserve to know how he’s hurt my Kyle.

If his mind begins to work to finally form a plan, that's great, incredible even. Stan stays up until the early hours of the morning with his notebook, haunting the same spot on the couch his father usually does, simply writing and writing every last detail down.

It all has to go right. This is the one simple truth that plays on loop in Stan’s mind as he drifts to sleep, sprawled awkwardly across the couch cushions. He’s so exhausted, he doesn’t even notice the notebook slipping out of his hands and onto the floor.

He sleeps deeply and doesn’t dream. He’s still exhausted when he’s awoken the next morning.

Chapter Text

“Stanley? Stan! Wake up! We need to leave!”

Stan awakens with a start, head still swimming with sleep. Sharon is standing over him with her hands on her hips.

“We’re running late, go get….” She trails off as she looks down at Stan, realising her son is still in the same crumpled clothes from the day before. Her face drops into a frown, and Stan feels the disappointment cut through his bleary vision. His heart seizes at the sight, and her eyes bore deeply into his own.

“Did you sleep on the couch?” She asks, and Stan hears her disapproval laced within her voice.

“Yeah. Sorry, I lost track of time.” He replies, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He takes a moment to stretch, joints popping awkwardly and a little painfully. Sharon takes a hand to his hair, mussed up and sticking out in every direction, in an attempt to smooth it down.

“Just be glad your dad wasn’t home to see you.” She says, in that tone that Stan knows is Sharon’s way of telling him she’s disappointed. His heart tightens up again, and before he knows it, he’s trudging upstairs, shying away from the judging eyes of his mother.

She thinks you’re lazy. Well fucking done, idiot.

Stan is quick to grab his bag and stick from his room, his eyes flitting over the mess for anything he might have missed. He doesn’t bother to change his clothes or properly comb his hair. The contents of his unzipped bag overflow, and haphazardly thrown-in pencils and other assorted junk fall out as Stan steps over the growing piles of laundry strewn across his floor to collect his jacket from the other side of the room.

His stomach churns as he returns downstairs, where Sharon is waiting for him by the door. He can see the stress pulling at the lines on her face as she opens the door for him. Stan doesn’t say a word to her as they make their way out of the house and to the car, and he shrinks in the passenger seat to avoid her line of sight.

The journey to Adams County’s rink drags on forever. The radio crackles, occasionally spitting out a couple of words before returning to static sounds that feel like someone is scratching chalkboards on his mind. Stan reaches over and turns the volume down. As silence begins to fill the car, Stan’s leg starts to bounce.

By the time they arrive, the rink’s parking lot is already full. Stan jumps out of the car before it stops completely, ignoring Sharon as he weaves through crowds of unfamiliar people with his stick and uncomfortably large bag to try and find his team. When Stan finally finds the room, he doubles over, breathless.

When he looks up, all eyes are on him. They’re tired and angry, and they’re all focused on Stan.

Shit. They’re pissed at you.

“Sorry, uh, emergency at home…” He lies. Nobody replies. They just turn away to finish adjusting the last parts of their uniforms.

They’re so fucking pissed at you.

Stan drops his bag on the bench closest to the door and begins changing. His eyes occasionally flit over to Kenny, who doesn’t look back. It’s quiet, save for the rustling of kits and the clatter of skates on tile. The rest of the boys are only on the other side of the room, but Stan feels like he’s worlds away from them.

When he’s only halfway finished putting on his skates, the rest of the team leaves the changing room in a cloud of chatter and jeers towards one-another. They don’t spare so much as a glance towards Stan, seemingly fine without their captain, aside from Ike, who spares him a small wave.

He furiously tugs the laces of his skates tight, and trails after them. Kenny is already starting to lead a few warm-ups when Stan finally gets to the rink, skating over with a confused expression.

“Dude, I’m here. I’ll take over.” Stan says, and Kenny stares at him like he just started speaking a foreign language.

“You sure? You’ve not exactly been with it all week.” Kenny says plainly, “This win is important, so I just wanna make sure everyone is ready.”

Stan grits his teeth. “I’m Captain. That’s my responsibility. Not yours.” His tone is unusually snappy and sharp.

Kenny’s eyes widen a little, then soften again. “Whatever.” He mutters, skating away from Stan to join the other boys.

That feeling arises again. It’s like a knife, buried deep in his gut. When Kenny turns his back on him, it twists. It hurts.

Stan does his best to ignore the dull pain of it as he’s warming up. It’s hard - he keeps catching himself staring at the back of the blonde’s head every time he looks over to his left. With nowhere left to look, he tries to scout out Kyle in the crowd.

He almost misses him, but finds it impossible to miss his flurry of ginger hair. Kyle is waiting by the gate to the ice, wearing that oversized jacket Stan likes seeing him in, awkwardly twiddling his hands.

When Stan skates over to him, he sees how Kyle’s eyes light up. He hopes it’s because of him.

“Hi,” Kyle begins as Stan approaches the wall separating ice from solid ground.

‘Hey. It’s nice to see you.” Stan replies. Kyle’s eyes fall to his hands, a small smile appearing on his face.

“You too. I just wanted to tell you good luck. ‘Cause it’s a big game and all.”

“No other reason?” Stan asks with a sly grin.

“Hmm? Not that I can think of.” Kyle looks up again, a hint of glee shining in his green eyes. Stan has to reach to support himself on the wall, accidentally brushing his gloved hands with Kyle’s.

They exchange small, soft smiles, and Stan finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from Kyle. In that moment, he feels untouchable, as if only Kyle can reach him. He can’t feel the cold shoulders from the rest of the team, and he doesn’t find himself fearing the outcome of the game quite so much.

The Adams County boys are starting to make their way out onto the ice, but Stan is still stuck in his moment with Kyle. With him watching and cheering him on, Stan feels like he could do anything.

Winning will be easy. I’ve got this.

Stan is cruelly snapped from his thoughts by a rough shoulder check. He falls forward into the barrier, and Kyle reaches out as if on instinct to catch him.

“The fuck was that for?” Stan turns, irritated, only to be met by the gloating face of Cartman.

“Game’s starting, when you fags are done making out.” He says, with that same infernal tone that makes Stan want to tear his hair out.

“Shit, okay.” He says, and begins to pull himself out of Kyle’s arms. The other boy jumps back, furthering the distance between them.

“I should...” Stan says with a hot face, pointing vaguely behind him. The crowd is beginning to get excited now.

“Yeah. Good luck.” Kyle practically finishes Stan’s sentence. He’s quick to turn and leave without offering Stan so much as an opportunity to say goodbye.

Stan moves on to rejoin the team. None of them can meet his eyes as they fall into position around him. It doesn’t even feel like they’re there at all. He swallows dryly when the crowd around them begins to cheer, anxiety creeping up as the beginning of the game draws ever closer.

With the tension still thick in the air, Stan draws to the edge of the centre circle. The Adams County centre player is tall and built, and just seeing how he’s grown into his muscle since the last time South Park faced them makes Stan a little nervous. He tries to calm his nerves by attempting to scope out Kyle in the crowd, but before his eyes can even reach the stands, the referee is approaching with a puck in hand.

The game begins, and from the moment the whistle is blown, Stan comes to the harsh realisation that they are wildly out of their depth. The other centre wins the puck without much of a struggle, creating a disadvantage that they already don’t want to be playing in.

The clock ticks, and it’s becoming abundantly clear that Adams County is the dominant force. They’re all over South Park. Between Stan's attempts to keep an eye on Vaughn as well as on the puck, he’s struggling to keep up with the bigger, bulkier boys that make up the opposing team. His stomach churns and his heart races, and he knows everyone can see how much he’s faltering.

He can already hear the sighs of disappointment from his mother and Randy’s smug tone as he rubs in the fact that he's been right all along. His friends are right beside his parents, and they’re all talking about him, how embarrassing he is, and how it hurts to associate with him. When they leave, Kyle won’t be able to look Stan in the eye.

Anytime Stan thinks he might be closing the gap, Adams County seems to get even further ahead. Any hope Stan might have had left disappears when their opponents score, shooting the puck into the back of the net before Cartman can do anything to stop it. The pit in Stan’s stomach only opens wider when they score that goal, and the number one next to the home team’s name hanging over them simply feels like a taunt.

The whistle rings sharply in the air, and the first period is over. The South Park boys exit the ice, talking strategy amongst each other, while Stan trails behind, clutching his chest, his breath coming out in deep, heaving exhales.

The first break passes so quickly that Stan doesn’t register it. He drinks some water, ignores the scolding they’re subjected to by Vaughn, and doesn’t pay attention to any of the suggestions thrown out by the team. Then he’s back on the ice again, tired and sweating, and Vaughn’s eyes are burning holes through him. He knows they are and feels them burn hot.

Partway through the second period, Kenny gets control of the puck, and an Adams County player roughly tackles him. Stan should’ve been there for him to pass to, but he wasn't, leaving him wide open and vulnerable. Their opponents steal back the puck and shoot, with the crowd going wild as the score becomes two to none.

Stan’s fists tighten frustratedly around his hockey stick. He’s getting increasingly agitated, and everyone can tell. The tension between the South Park boys is worsening, and it does nothing to help their dreadful performance.

His eyes occasionally bounce over to Kyle, and it’s the only, albeit slight, comfort he feels in the midst of this game from hell. Knowing he’s there and that he’ll stay through it all is all Stan needs.

He thinks that maybe he’s a little crazy for that. Not that he has the time to even entertain it right now. Instead, he tries to hone all his focus on the rest of this god-awful game.

Relief washes over him when the whistle signifying the end of the second period is blown. Stan can’t stand to spend a moment longer looking at Adams County's gloating faces. Vaughn’s expression is dark as he strides away. Stan knows he won’t be offering them any more advice in this game. He’s ashamed enough as it is. He doesn’t want any more embarrassment attached to his name in the form of the South Park hockey team, and Stan honestly can’t blame him for that.

When they reach the changing rooms, the team finally turns on him. Most notably, Cartman does. The other boys stay quiet, offering Stan judging stares. Not nice looks. Not supportive looks. Looks that Stan knows; that mean, we know, and we’re not fucking happy about it.

“Alright, what’s your deal, hippie?” Cartman scowls, “You totally fucked us over out there, staring at your boyfriend more than the puck! We could’ve gotten an easy lead if you weren’t such a faggot!”

It’s with that one line, something so small, meaningless, and so Cartman, that Stan’s patience, already worn thin by the atrocious first half, seems to have finally run out. It’s not like he doesn’t have much left to lose in the first place. His team’s respect for him is dwindling faster than ever, and Cartman deserves repercussions for the things he says to people, not just Stan.

With bared teeth and eyes trained so furiously on the boy in front of him, Stan storms up to him and grabs a fistful of his jersey. He pulls a clenched fist back, then begins to swing wildly before strong arms haul him away. He lands a hit, though, when Stan’s fist connects awkwardly with Cartman’s nose - nowhere near enough to break anything, but enough to cause some pain and shock.

Stan struggles in their arms as Cartman swears and clutches at his nose, babbling something incoherent about how it’s definitely broken. It’s not even bleeding. Even Stan can see that through his daze.

Clyde and Tolkien surround Cartman, and Stan thinks they might be yelling at him, asking him what the hell he thinks he’s playing at. The rest of the team circle around the scene, but Tolkien urges them all out of the locker room, or at least away from here, leading a cowering Ike with him.

“What the fuck are you doing, Stan!? Are you insane!?” Kenny’s voice permeates through the fog in Stan’s brain. He realises Kenny is holding him here, and tears stream down his cheeks.

“I barely even touched him! Fuck, let go of me!” Stan tries harder, but his movements are tired and sluggish, and his breathing is becoming laboured.

“Not until you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you! Dude, we’re all worried sick!”

“What’s wrong with me?! What about you?!” Stan snaps, wrenching himself free from Kenny’s grasp to face him, “You were playing like shit! You’re all tripping all over yourselves!”

Kenny recoils a little at Stan’s words, but doesn’t waver. “Come on, don’t be stupid, I’m not talking about hockey. Can you snap out of whatever this is?”

“Did you even try?” Stan keeps pushing and pushing, with no regard for anything anymore. If they want to ogle him and judge him, then fine. He’ll just put on a show for them.

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your friend, asshole. What was I meant to do, anyway? I needed you there to assist me, you know that.” Kenny says defeatedly.

“Fuck off.” Stan has resorted to physically trying to shove Kenny off of him. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Kenny repeats in a low, frightening tone. Stan subconsciously takes a small step back, arms now relaxed, but his face is still filled with vexation. “‘S not like you’re any better. You’ve been a total dick all week.”

“You don’t even get how hard I’ve been working for this game. Forgive me for being an asshole, but it’d be nice to see you and the guys actually give a fuck for once!” Stan retaliates, and it’s too fiery and too wrong coming from his mouth.

“We have been working! You’ve been pushing us way too far, dude, but nobody said shit because we know what this means for you! We care, Stan, why can’t you see that?”

“Why are you being such a dick to me?” Stan says, and it comes out bruised. Kenny pinches his nose, like all Stan spews is nonsense and that he has to be taken care of before the game starts again.

“God, I don't know, maybe because you can’t just go around saying this shit? We’ve all worked for this, Stan, not just you. It’s just that not all of us can spend every minute of our day thinking about fucking hockey.”

Stan is still heaving. There’s nothing he can say to Kenny - nothing that will save him from the inevitable. His head is reeling, and he knows they’ll have to go back to the rink soon, but he can’t move.

“I know you’re shooting to play professionally, Stan,” Kenny continues, and it’s with a slight, soft smile, only visible for the briefest of moments, “but I can’t. I can’t afford to think for even a second that I can do this to support my family. I can’t be the player you want me to be. I have to work. I have to think about school, college, and my future, and I'm not going to let you ruin that.”

Stan scowls. It’s clearly not the reaction Kenny was hoping for, and his expression darkens. “Oh, go fuck yourself. If I’m not good enough for your crazy new standards, I’ll just quit. I’m not putting hockey above mine and Karen’s futures.”

Kenny stalks away, and Stan is left alone. He feels numb. Old tears have since dried on his hot face, but no more fall.

He eventually finds his way back to the ice. Head down, eyes away from the team. Stan hardly has the focus needed anymore to play the game - from the moment the whistle sounds, he’s a fumbling mess, moving across the ice as if in a haze. All he can do is watch, helpless, as the team he’s failed to lead struggles against their opponent, as Ike scuffles with players much too big and strong for him to take on.

Adams County scores their third after overpowering Ike, and as they revel in their inevitable win, Stan knows Vaughn is only going to lay into Ike harder than before for that mistake. And yet, his goal has changed entirely. He knows they’re going to lose, but for every second they lose on the clock, Stan hears his voice grow louder in the back of his mind. What once would’ve been scary and dreaded, all Stan now sees is opportunity in confrontation. It's an opportunity to set things right, to get people back on his side once more, and to put things back to how they used to be. His heart races from the anticipation and anger. Vaughn will not stand for much longer.

They score a fourth and final goal as the clock ticks closer to full time, but Stan can't bring himself to care. The final whistle blows, and it’s the first time he’s ever been relieved that a match has ended.

When they leave the ice, dripping with sweat and heads bowed in shame, Vaughn is waiting for them. Stan doesn’t look up. He has so many emotions churning inside of him that he fears doing so will be dangerous. Now that he’s here and living in the moment, his anticipation has turned into ice-cold fear. For the first time, he's truly scared of the older.

You can’t say anything to make this better. Look at this stupid grip he’s got on you. You’re nothing.

“I don’t want to look at any of you right now. I’m beyond disappointed. You are all fucking hopeless - I don’t know how the hell a single one of you made this team.” He says, and his tone is so vile, so venomous, that it feels like a deep, cutting wound.

He turns his attention to Stan next.

“I’ll be talking with you later, Captain.” He spits, and Stan fears that his heart will drop out of his chest. It’s too much, all of it, and he knows he’s going to get the worst treatment of his entire short-lived career, whenever later might be.

It’s when Vaughn turns to Ike that Stan finally has the courage to look. He doesn’t really tune into what’s being said. All he can focus on is Ike, stark-white, being savaged by someone far larger and more terrifying than himself.

Fuck that. He needs to pay. Nobody’s gonna do anything if you don’t.

Kenny hates him, the team hates him, and Ike and Kyle are the only ones he has left. Stan knows he’s never going to get an opportunity like this again, with the crowd above them, watching and listening. Stan could make sure they learn, know what Vaughn has done, and make sure he gets what he deserves. The opportunity is right there, so sickeningly close that Stan feels like he could touch it.

With a deep breath, he steps forward, more ready to face Vaughn than he has ever been before.

The man stops mid-sentence upon seeing Stan approach him, fury coursing across every inch of his body. The other boys stay behind, watching with bated breath. Stan couldn’t care less. It’s not like any of them still give Kyle a second thought.

“Leave. I’ll deal with you later.” Vaughn practically snarls.

“No, carry on. What are you saying to Ike?” Stan replies, holding back the bite in his tone. The older man looks a little taken aback for a single, split second. Overall, he’s unphased. Maybe even a little more pissed off than before.

“Since you failed to properly captain him, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.” It’s a bold threat, and it’s one that Stan knows he will follow through with. Ike looks so small and scared, shying away from Vaughn. Stan can’t bear to see it any longer.

“What, you’re gonna yell at him some more? Or are you gonna do something worse? We all know you want to. It didn’t stop you from doing it to Kyle for all that time.”

Vaughn elicits a noise similar to a growl as Ike pales at the mention of his brother. He shakes his head just slightly, warning Stan and begging him to stop, but if Stan had noticed it, he had chosen to ignore it.

“Don’t bring that kid into this. You need to stop sticking your nose in where you’re not wanted.”

“Why? You don’t want people to find out? Everyone knows Kyle was meant to be ready for the Olympics by now. You fucking ruined that! It was all you, and everyone needs to know before you do it to Ike and to anyone else!”

There’s a vein beginning to protrude in Vaughn’s neck. Stan can’t hold back his cocky smirk. He knows he’s won and that the battle is finally over.

But in an instant, Vaughn is in his face, seething. “I should report you for accusing me of such things. You know nothing.” He jabs a sharp finger into the centre of Stan’s chest, sending a chill down his spine. But Stan stares him down, defiant, until the older man turns to face Ike once more.

He’s infuriated, and Stan’s bravado instantly melts away.

“It’s clear to me that you can’t apply yourself to this team. And using your brother as a shield for the downright embarrassing display in that match is disgraceful. You’re off the team, Broflovski. For good. Get out of my sight.”

The words toll in Stan’s head like a funeral chime. Repeating, over and over, a cacophony of cruel threats that have built up to him finally following through. Ike is sheet-white, while Stan feels like he’s glued in place. The cocophany only grows louder, mocking Stan, solidifying his failure in a sole moment.

Vaughn is beginning to walk away. But Stan can’t let him go. He can’t let him get away with this. He can’t take this from Ike, stealing Stan’s opportunity of redemption with him, and walk out like it’s nothing.

“Coach, you can’t do that!” Stan protests. He looks over to Ike for even just a shred of support from him, but he remains scarily still. It’s here that Stan realises he's never been ahead in this race, not at any single point. Vaughn would always have the upper hand, and he’d shown that today in a singular crushing move.

“Who says I can’t? Speak another word out of line and you’ll be following in his footsteps, Marsh.” He snarls, and his tone makes Stan’s mouth run dry. It’s as if all the words in the world are failing him right now, words he so desperately needs to defend Kyle where his actions fail him.

He can’t do anything but watch in a stupor as Vaughn leaves. Ike soon follows, pushing roughly past Stan.

The other boys go next. They don’t look back at their captain, not once. It makes Stan feel empty. He has nothing left to pour out, nothing left to spill out for all to see. They all know who he really is, and they hate him.

The changing room is as empty as the first time they abandoned him. Stan tugs off his kit, shoving it carelessly into his bag. He doesn’t wipe his skates clean of ice or fold his jersey like he would’ve done any other time. All that can be heard are the sounds of Stan’s own shaky breathing and his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. He slings his bag over his shoulder with numb hands, preparing to leave without causing even more of a scene.

He just needs to get his head straight. Then he can explain it all and hopefully fix things. It’s not an impossible feat just yet.

Behind him, Stan hears skates against the floor, then they stop and are replaced by muttered expletives. In his daze, Stan manages to turn his head, seeing the tail end of Ike as he storms out of the changing rooms, the laces of his shoes trail sadly behind him. Stan almost breaks into a run to catch up with his friend, but he eventually catches up, reaching out with a desperate hand to grab onto Ike’s shoulder.

The shorter boy flinches, and his wide eyes meet Stan’s own. His rosy cheeks are stained with tear trails. Stan himself wants to cry at the sight of it.

“Ike, please listen to me, dude, I can fix this.” He says, pleading, beseeching, the most desperate he’s ever heard himself sound. Ike visibly tenses, and he reaches up to grasp onto Stan’s wrist and rip his hand from his shoulder.

“No! Why can’t you just fucking butt out of our business?! Leave me alone, Stan!” Ike bites back, and his tone is so full of the same venom Kyle used to speak to him with. He recoils a little, but finds himself just able to bounce back.

“Please, this wasn’t meant to happen,” His voice wobbles, “I was trying to help Kyle—”

Ike explodes, cutting Stan clean off. “Kyle?! You’re seriously going to use him as a way out of this?! Stop…stop acting like you fucking care about him, Stan, it’s not funny anymore!”

Stan attempts fruitlessly to stumble his way through an explanation. Ike won’t let him. “You didn’t give a shit when he was going through hell. Don’t even try and pretend like you give a fuck now.”

Before Stan can even think to retort Ike’s accusation, he’s leaving. But Stan finds he can’t even chase after him. His legs feel like lead, unable to move, and his chest feels tight. He blinks back a few stray tears, swallowing, but before he can manage a step, he’s being shoved harshly against a wall.

Stan opens his eyes, and he’s greeted by the sight of Kyle. He’s furious. His teeth are bared, and his eyes are alight with rage. The hand pressing Stan against the wall trembles violently - Kyle can only hold him there for a moment or so before he lets go, resorting to frantic pacing while Stan slides down to sit against the wall, watching the other go back and forth.

“What the fuck did you do?!” He exclaims, turning to face Stan again.

“I can explain, Kyle, please just—”

“No! I told you, I fucking told you, not to do this shit! Why couldn’t you just listen to me just this once?” Kyle’s voice breaks when he says this, and Stan swears he feels his heart crack into two as well.

“I didn’t think it’d go like this, I swear! I can fix this, if you’ll just listen to me!”

“And when was this ever about you, huh?!” Kyle asks, taking a step closer to Stan, leaning down and thrusting a shaking finger at him, jabbing it deep into his chest. “What about me, for once?! You just did all of this shit so everyone would see you as some…” His hands move frantically as he tries to find the words, “Some fucking hero, but you never even gave a shit about what Vaughn did to me! You just wanted to brag to all your new asshole friends about how cool and awesome you were for fixing up that freak nobody Kyle! Would it kill you to actually care about someone, for once?!”

Stan’s head is reeling from Kyle’s words. He can barely string a sentence together himself, stumbling over his words like he’s intoxicated. It takes him a few seconds to spit out something that’s somewhat coherent, but his voice still wavers.

“I didn’t mean to, really! God, you think any of that was on purpose?!”

“What, I’m meant to believe that fucking show was some kind of accident?! I’m not as fucking stupid as you think I am. And what about Ike, huh? What, you’re so far up your own ass that you forgot he’s fucking thirteen?! What the hell were you thinking, dragging him into all of this?! Just admit you did it for yourself!”

“I didn’t!” Stan shoots back. He waves his hands about, as if the frantic show will do anything more to convince Kyle.

It’s not working, Stan knows it; he knows he’s losing everything in a single snapshot moment. Kyle is so close, and Stan can hear his laboured breathing, but he feels untouchable right now. All he can do is watch, helpless, as Kyle becomes unrecognisable right in front of him.

“You have everything, Stan! A team, a future - hell, even Ike likes you more than he likes me! Don’t lie to me, I’ve thought it all out already! There’s nothing you could’ve gotten out of playing with me and fucking with Vaughn that wouldn’t have benefited you!” Kyle retorts, his fists now clenched by his side. He doesn’t have his walking stick with him, and as he paces back and forth, Stan can see his limp once more.

He wants to reach out, hold Kyle, and whisper a million apologies to him. Out of all the people Stan has let down today, this hurts the most. It feels like that knife again, plunging straight through his heart, over and over.

“God, you're so fucking selfish! I can’t believe I ever trusted you!” Kyle spits, and the knife twists inside the wound he’s created for himself. All of a sudden, words seem to fail him - there's nothing he can say, nothing he can do, because Kyle being doomed to hate him because of his own failures was always going to be inevitable.

“Kyle, please—” Is all he can choke out, and it seems to just make everything worse.

The taller stands straight, his hands flying to tug at his flaming ringlets. His eyes dart erratically over Stan’s shaking figure.

“Just shut up! Just fucking shut up! There's no fixing this, so don’t even try. You fucked it all up in the first place! Just like you do with fucking everything!”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” Stan only just manages to pull himself to his feet once again, hand resting against the wall to support his shaking knees.

“Are you stupid?! It was all you! You got these new popular hockey friends, and all of a sudden I wasn't good enough for you! Don't try to play dumb, I know exactly what it was!” There are tears brimming in Kyle’s eyes, and he blinks them away with such scary ferocity.

Stan can’t believe what he’s hearing. The accusation stings, which worsens into a burning sensation bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

“That wasn't it at all, what the hell?! Don't put all of this on me, Kyle, you cut me off first!” Stan finally finds his voice, the hurt clear in his tone.

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?” Kyle spits, “It was obvious you didn't wanna be friends anymore! It fucking hurt, Stan, every time you chose fucking Cartman over me! What did I even do to you, huh?! What did I do to make you think I deserve this?!”

It feels like Stan is being pulled apart at the seams. Hearing Kyle’s pain, it’s all too much at once.

You caused this. You ruined this. You can’t fix this.

“I did wanna be friends with you, dude! It was you that started ignoring all my calls and pretending like I didn’t fucking exist! How do you think that made me feel, huh?” Stan wants to be persuasive, to argue, to push his side of the story with even half the heart that Kyle does. But his voice still wavers, and he’s holding back ugly, uncontrollable sobs. “I wanted to try and make it up to you because I want to be friends with you! Is that so hard for you to believe? I really, really like you, Kyle; please just let me make this up to you.” Stan says, his voice hoarse from pleading his case in front of someone who used to be his best friend.

“No! You’ve done enough!” Then, Kyle’s voice lowers - deep and dark, and scarier than anything Stan’s ever heard in his life. He takes a step closer, looking down his nose at Stan like he’s the lowest of the low.

It’s terrifying.

“And don’t think I didn’t fucking miss what you were doing at practice, either, Marsh. Were you trying to kill my little brother or something with all those stunts? You’re fucking nuts. Be glad that he’s off the team, because I will kill you if you ever get near him again.” He seethes before stepping away from Stan.

He feels nauseous, seeing Kyle move further away. Knowing he’ll never be able to touch him again. Knowing he did this, that it’s his fault, and that Kyle has every right to hate him.

“All Ike wanted to do was play some hockey. I told him it was a bad idea, but I fucking trusted you with him.” Kyle sighs, defeated, almost exhausted. “And look where that’s gotten us.”

“I’m sorry. This isn’t what I wanted.” Stan’s voice falls almost to a whisper. But Kyle is beginning to walk away, and the fight is over as quickly as it started. Before he leaves, though, Kyle leaves a few final choice words lingering in the air between them.

“I wish I never lived in this stupid fucking town. I wish I never met you in the first place.”

It hurts. It hurts worse than anything Stan has ever felt.

He doesn’t cry, even though he just wishes he could. He can’t. The tears feel stuck; they clog up his throat and cloud his vision, but they don’t fall.

He watches as Kyle leaves for the final time, and Stan doesn’t follow him.

Chapter Text

There are a lot of things that Stan doesn’t remember from that point forward. Sharon comes along at some point, ready for a morale-boosting speech, but it dies on her tongue upon seeing her son’s despondent expression. In one moment, she’s hugging him, and in the next, they’re in the car. Stan doesn’t know how he made it there, but he doesn’t exactly care either.

Snow falls in thick flakes against the car’s rusting exterior. They land softly on the windscreen, only to be harshly shoved aside by the squeaking wipers. Sharon’s saying something now, but Stan isn’t listening; he's simply watching with empty eyes as the snow is brushed away time and time again.

He tries his best to pay attention to his mother’s words, but he never fully succeeds. He catches on to her mentioning Uncle Jimbo, but his mind is quickly taken back to memories of summers spent at Jimbo and Ned’s cabin with Kyle. They’d set off fireworks with Stan’s lunatic uncle, away from the eagle-eyed watch of Sheila, and Stan would be unable to tear his eyes away from Kyle and his smile, all teeth, as his face changed colour with the fireworks. It was so rare to see Kyle finally content, as he looked back at Stan to wordlessly thank him for inviting him on this outing.

There’s no more of that now. Stan will forever be haunted by that face, as beautiful and freckled as ever but no longer smiling. All that remains is cold-hearted contempt, every last inch reserved for Stan.

He shifts in his seat and starts to pick at the loose material on the passenger seat door.

Stan doesn’t even know where it's all gone wrong. What had felt like a blissful dream had ultimately proven to be too good to be true, and there was nobody to blame but himself.

He continues to wallow in his misery until Sharon pulls up outside the Marsh home. The snow has settled already, dampening the hem of Stan’s jeans when he steps out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He thinks it’s deserved, the tiny discomfort that wraps around his ankles. He waits a bit, unmoving, staring at his feet until long after Sharon has driven off.

It’s only once the cold has settled into his bones that Stan finally walks towards the front door, opening it with a sigh. It’s not much warmer inside, but he’s no longer standing in the snow, and the TV picture flickers from the sitting room.

He unceremoniously makes his way upstairs, lugging his skate bag and stick behind him. Someone is calling for him, and their tone is growing increasingly impatient. Stan doesn’t care. Everyone is pissed off enough with him as it is, so what difference will one more person make?

When Stan finally reaches his room, he dumps his things in front of his closet. He kicks some dirty laundry out of the way with a frustrated grunt, watching as the balled up clothes soar across his room and join the sad, growing pile near his door.

He looks around his room for a moment, at all the reminders of Kyle and of his presence in a home that hasn’t welcomed him in years. There are photos on the walls that Stan never had the heart to take down, freezing moments in time when they were still young and dumb and still had each other. They’re sandwiched between trashy posters of bands that they used to listen to together, as well as crudely cut photos of world-famous hockey players.

Stan doubts Kyle even has his CDs anymore. They were probably trashed long ago, along with all the clothes he’d forgotten at the Broflovskis and any kind of positive feelings Kyle might have once had for Stan.

Yet, he still doesn’t cry. Not when he tries to think of Kyle’s soft touch, gentle and reserved only for Stan; not when, no matter how hard he tries to stop it, the vision twists cruelly into Kyle shoving him harshly against a wall. All that fills his head is Kyle, from beginning to end, in all his desperation and all his anguish. And Stan had caused all that. In trying to keep Kyle close, he pushed him away. And in trying to protect his team from one man, Stan had hurt them all worse than Vaughn probably ever could have.

Just thinking about a Kyle-less, hockey-less, or even Kenny-less future is too much for Stan to bear. It feels like salt is being poured into his wounds and rubbed deep into the stinging flesh. He knows he deserves this. He deserves all the hateful looks and the life of misery he's driven himself to, and he knows there’s nothing he can do to change it. It’s suffocating, overwhelming even. He wishes the pain would go away, even just temporarily, to let him breathe and maybe recollect his thoughts.
Even after all this thinking, Stan doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even deserve the freedom to do that.

He moves towards his guitar as if on autopilot, numb fingers closing around the neck and pulling it close. A loud knock at his door pulls him from his haze, but Stan doesn’t move to answer it. He just listens, kneeling on the floor in front of his amp and the pile of tangled wires, as the knocks become thuds and the thuds become pounding. The door bursts open soon after, squeaking painfully on neglected hinges, to reveal an angry, drunken Randy.

He leans against the doorframe, breathing heavily. Stan can hear every breath his father takes, in and out, through his stupid mouth, and it feels like nails on a chalkboard. Randy kicks at the dirty laundry that has piled against Stan’s door and sets his can of beer on top of the overflowing dresser. His cheeks are red and his hair is unkempt, but there's an unmistakable wrath swirling within his sunken eyes.

“What do you want? I’m not in the mood.” Stan says plainly, his hand moving to brush over the tuning pegs. After a moment of fiddling with them and tuning nothing at all, he turns on his knees to face Randy.

“You heard me.” Randy says, but Stan can’t bring himself to be scared this time. Not when he has no idea what his disgraceful father is talking about, not when there are a million things worse than Randy Marsh taking his drunken rage out on his son. This is just a typical evening for Stan. He’s dealt with much worse, and Randy is simply a thorn in his side at this point.

“What? I didn’t.” Stan replies with a bored expression. This only seems to irk Randy more.

“Your mom. Where’s your fu–UHcking mom?” He spits, interrupting his sentence with a disgusting belch.

“I don’t know.” Stan shoots back. He turns back to his guitar, dropping his weight and unfolding his legs from underneath him to cross them. He balances the body of the guitar across his thighs, dark eyes flitting between his dad and the strings.

“Yes you do, I watched her bring you home. Where the fuck did she go?”

“I. Don’t. Know.” Stan repeats. He lets a hand run across the strings, the other patting the carpet as if it were searching for something. Stan’s eyebrows furrow when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. His fingers only brush over matted carpet.

“You know what, I’m sick of this shit. You two keep all these secrets from me, and I’ve had it!” Randy slurs, slamming his fist on top of Stan’s dresser. It trembles under the force, and Stan jolts a little from the sudden noise.

“I’m serious, Dad, she didn’t tell me.” Irritation is clear in his voice. Stan hopes it’s enough and that his obliviousness will end this tired routine. He moves to stand up, leaning his guitar against his bed frame. Randy’s eyes follow him throughout the movement - never once straying from his target. Stan inches closer towards his dresser, painfully aware of the unbroken eye contact and the vile stench of beer beginning to work its way into his nose.

“You’re a damn liar.” Randy says, in low tones. He’s trying to be threatening, but it’s hardly working - Stan is too preoccupied with trying to pull open his overflowing drawer to notice.

“Sure, whatever makes you feel better.” Stan replies boredly, giving the drawer handle one final tug before it opens.

Randy grits his teeth. Whether Stan even notices this is unclear - he’s too busy tearing apart the contents of the drawer to pay any mind to his father’s empty threats. His heart sinks upon realising the notebook isn't in the drawer - all that remains is one lone picture of him and Kyle that had fallen from between the page folds the last time he’d taken it from there.

“‘Re you even listening to me?” Randy growls. With his face slowly reddening, he reaches out to try and grab Stan’s wrist. And in his drunken state, he misses. Stan jumps when he feels his father’s clammy fingers brush against his forearm, and the brief touch lingers on his skin like a wound. He tries to manoeuvre around Randy, backing away until he’s in the centre of his room. It’s the only place untouched by Stan’s manic existence over the last few weeks, with the carpet still visible under his socks.

It’s in that moment that Stan catches sight of what he’d been looking for all along. Rolled up in his father’s back pocket, only visible for a moment while Randy is catching his breath, gripping the door frame with white knuckles. His notebook, the one containing everything, the one that Stan can’t afford to lose.

“Hey, that’s mine. Give it back.” He says, as Randy straightens. It’s like a switch flipping inside his drunken dad when he realises what his son is pointing out. He brandishes the notebook like a knife, still rolled up tightly, and his eyes flit between it and his son.

Randy takes an uneven step toward him. It’s the smallest Stan has felt in his presence in a long time. He can see the lines of wrath in his father’s face, cutting too deep and all too close for Stan’s liking. The smell of his dad’s beer is stronger now too, and Stan finds himself trying to hold his shaky breathing to avoid the stench of it.

"You're telling me you wrote this shit? It was downstairs.” He says, in a voice that’s way too low. Stan’s heart drops to his stomach. The dots connect - he must have forgotten it in his rush to the rink this morning. His brain tries to formulate some kind of response that lets him leave tonight unscathed.

“Y-Yeah. Can I have it back?” He replies, wincing at the tremor in his tone. Randy doesn’t seem to hear him, instead opting to flip through the pages for a moment.

“I’m getting real tired of you… your attitude. It stops now. Your mom might let you talk to her like this, but I won't, you hear me?” Randy spits, snapping the book shut. “This… What the fuck is this?”

Stan is frozen in place. His head feels light, and it feels like his father is peeling back his skin, judging him through hate-filled eyes. He has no more words; there is nothing left to say. He simply wishes for this nightmare to end. Randy holds the book in front of his face, like he’s taunting him with it. But Stan doesn’t reach out to snatch it from his father’s unwelcoming grip - he feels paralysed.

“It’s fucking bullshit, that’s what it is!” Randy answers the question himself, his volume leaping up. Stan flinches, but his eyes stay trained furiously on his father. “You think you can come here, disrespect my rules, and leave your filth lying around?!”

The next few moments seem to pass in slow motion. Randy’s other hand comes up to grab a few pages from the notebook, a furious grunt leaving him as he tears them from the spine. Something akin to a choked scream escapes Stan as he watches on in horror. More and more pages fall, some ripped in half, some screwed up beyond recognition.

“I will not have this…this fucking pansy shit in my house!” Randy huffs between laboured breaths. Stan’s notebook is becoming nothing more than a crumpled shell. Soon enough, there are no more pages to rip out, but Stan can’t move. It feels like everything is closing in on him, and all he can do is stare at the scraps as they fall to the carpet.

His heart is thudding loudly. It almost feels like it’s been ripped from his chest, and put on display for his father to crush. But Stan still isn’t crying; he refuses to cry.

But Randy still isn’t done. He’s red in the face, bellowing into Stan’s. He only snaps out of his stupor when Randy finally pulls back, having spotted something else in his rage.

“And that fucking guitar… You’ve got no respect for anyone in this goddamn family! No respect for me!” He reaches for the guitar, grabbing it by the neck in his ugly, ham-fisted hands.

Randy raises it above his head. Stan stumbles backwards.

He swings, and Stan’s guitar snaps in half on contact.

“You’re selfish!” He says, and raises the guitar again. Stan’s stomach lurches. He only catches a few words of Randy’s next rant; he's too focused on the destruction of his guitar.

“You don’t give a fuck about anyone in this but yourself!” The guitar meets the floor again. More pieces go flying.

“You’re tearing this fucking family apart!”

The neck snaps in half on the final strike. Randy stands above the mess he’s created, chest heaving, before turning on his heel. Stan can’t do anything but stare at the broken pieces.

“You’re grounded. Don’t even fucking think about leaving this room.” He says, but Stan barely hears him.
Randy slams the door shut behind him. All Stan can do is stand in stunned silence, chest heaving and mouth agape, as his father’s heavy footsteps thud down the hallway towards the master bedroom.

Tears begin to well up, and this time he can’t keep them down. Stan starts to cry, the rise and fall of his chest uneven and heavy. But he can’t look away, not from the broken splinters of wood embedded in his carpet or from the scraps of all his love for Kyle scattered around them. He reaches out with a shaky hand to grab his inhaler from his bedside table, and then he remembers that he drained it years ago and hasn’t needed it since. But he can't breathe, and his chest is tight, and there are pieces of his poor, poor guitar everywhere.

He still can’t stop sobbing, tears wetting his cheeks and landing on his shirt. Stan clutches at the damp patch as if it’ll somehow suddenly open up his airways because everything hurts and he still can’t breathe, and Kyle is never ever coming back. Stan will never get to write another song about him or write worthless apologies in the dead of the night. Because that stupid guitar that he bought with Kyle by his side is now a sad pile of strings and splinters buried in the fibres of his carpet, and all the ripped-up words he’ll never get to say will be swept away with the trash soon enough, like they never meant anything in the first place.

When Stan finally manages to tear his gaze away from the mess, his sobs have ceased to be nothing more than a few wet hiccups every few seconds. He catches sight of an old shoe box on top of his dresser, coated with dust and containing hockey collectors' cards that he hasn’t actually collected or even looked at in years. It’s just the right size for hiding the scraps of paper and maybe some of the smaller parts of his guitar. Stan’s stomach begins to feel weak when he dares to dwell on the thought of throwing any of them out. He’s at least comforted by the fact that they’ll take up residence alongside his heroes, and he hopes the cardboard walls of the shoebox offer some more protection than the thin paper covers of the notebook that once hid his sweet notes.

It takes him a moment to muster up the courage to even just step over the pile, careful not to disturb any of the pieces just yet, and he makes it to his dresser in just two unsteady strides. In front of the box Stan wants is Randy’s beer can, forgotten and beginning to drip condensation onto the battered wood. Stan stares at it, his red-rimmed eyes still swollen and full of sadness. The red, white, and blue design on the can blurs together once more as fresh tears begin to fall, until all that can be heard is the sound of the sobs Stan is trying so hard to stifle.

When he reaches out to grab the offending can with both hands, it dents where he squeezes at it, as if with just enough pressure, it would vanish. It contains a poison that has destroyed a man Stan no longer recognises and torn apart their family. He sees parts of himself in Randy, in the worn-out creases across his forehead and in his steely grey eyes.

Becoming his father was something Stan hadn’t always feared. He’d been his father’s son once, sharing secret trips to roadside diners and playing games that were probably too rough for eight-year-old Stan in their backyard. Before the layoffs, before the arguments, before everything. But tonight, it feels glaringly true.

He misses his dad, who didn’t turn to drinking to wash away his problems. He misses when they could talk without the vile words and hurtful accusations.

His thoughts turn to Kyle, Ike, and the team - everyone he hurt and touched with his toxicity. He thinks of how he’s let down Sharon and Shelley, how they probably don’t even recognise him anymore, and how their beloved Stan has fallen so far from grace. The same way in which his dad had become an unrecognisable monster. His fingers begin to slip under the wet can, and he only cries harder at this realisation.

The rim of the can is so close to Stan’s mouth. It’d be so easy. It’s not like he has much else to lose.

He’s so close, he can smell it. It’s not as gut-wrenching as before. His sobs aren’t as loud anymore. It’s all so unusually calm. To Stan, it doesn’t feel all that real. His limbs feel heavy and robotic as they move the can towards his lips. They’re just touching the metal. It’s cool, and he can taste some of the beer that has spilled from the can.

The taste is a little more bitter than he remembers.

He takes a swig, letting the cool liquid sting at his throat as it slips down. Stan drinks and drinks until there’s not a drop left in the offending can. It feels as natural to him as breathing, and it feels as sickening as being alive right now. He swipes away at the stray droplets that are dribbling down his chin and at the tears that are drying on his face, then crushes the can in one numb hand. All the shame that he should feel and all the regret that will consume him if he wakes up tomorrow are nothing more than passing thoughts right now.

It joins the rest of the trash on the floor, coming to rest just next to the headstock of his broken guitar. Except he doesn’t see where it lands, having already picked up a discarded jacket from the floor and left his room.

Stan knows he’s weak. Deep down, he knew all along that he wouldn’t stay sober. Somehow, it’s a less uncomfortable thought than it should be.

The next few hours pass in a blur for Stan. Whether he’s too caught up in his own sorrow to realise what he’s doing or if he’s just completely oblivious, he doesn’t know. All he remembers is can after can, the designs occasionally differing but that awful, bitter taste never changing. He doesn’t even remember moving onto stronger stuff that he has to get up on shaking tip-toes to reach.

He definitely doesn’t remember stumbling down the streets in only a jacket and clothes that reek of old sweat. When he falls, he doesn't notice the snow soaking his jeans' knees; instead, he just gets back up and keeps walking. And he certainly has no memories of keeling over at the side of the road, puking up the contents of his stomach like a man possessed. The only coherent thought he can recall is the possibility that, if he could just keep pushing forward, Kyle would be waiting for him at the end with outstretched arms and forgiveness for all.

Stan mumbles incoherent apologies to the shadows he passes for all he’s done, promising to make up for what he’s done. But still, Kyle doesn’t emerge from the darkness, doesn’t make himself known. At one point, Stan swears up and down that he sees him in the distance, snow falling onto his curls.

If Stan were sober, he’d never be able to live it down. How pathetic he is, still clinging to Kyle after everything. But Stan is drunk, it’s a perfect excuse, and–

Eventually, Stan’s legs give out underneath him. He hasn’t got a clue in the world as to where he might even be, and it’s hard for him to even try to care. Exhaustion and cold are settling quickly into his bones, but Stan can’t move. He simply lays down, legs curled up to his chest, and eyes closed to stop his vision from spinning. He can feel the snow as it falls on his face, hands, neck, and everywhere else.

Kyle is nowhere to be seen. Stan isn’t so sure that he’s coming to save him this time.

His hands are numb. Everything hurts, and he’s so cold.

He wishes for the warmth of Sparky’s fur.

He yearns for Kyle’s strong embrace to pull him out of this mess.

There are a lot of things that Stan can’t have, that he will never deserve to get, and that he finds himself wishing for right now. Because he’d messed it up. Stan thinks that if he were to die here, alone and freezing somewhere in South Park, he’d be okay with it. He wouldn’t have spent the rest of his life waiting for his impossible wishes to come true, at the very least.

His eyes flutter shut as he moves to push his hands into his pockets to save them from the biting wind. They’re freezing. It almost hurts to move them.

Stan’s fingers soon find his phone. All his previous pain seems to have been forgotten already as he pulls it out and flips it open, fingers mashing awkwardly at too-small buttons to navigate a screen that feels like trying to hold water in an open palm.

Then the phone dials. He can make out the letter "K" somewhere, but not much more beyond that as the screen twists and blurs in his hands. Stan’s eyes fall shut once more as the dial tones sound out loudly, reverberating inside his skull.

Eventually, the person on the other end of the line picks up. Stan can hear them shuffling about before finally speaking.

“Who the hell is this? It’s one in the morning, jackass.” They sound pissed. Stan lets out a slight laugh at their tone.

“Yo, Kenny! Look, I-I’m sorry, you know, for being like… a total piece of shit. I thought about it, and I think that we should… er… be friends again. ‘Cause you’re like, my brother. I love you, man.” Stan slurs, and whatever he said sounds like a sentence in his head.

Clearly, Kenny doesn’t hear it this way. “What? Stan? Are you okay?”

“Dude, Ken, we need to be friends again, so you’ll hang with me right now. I feel fuckin’... fuckin’ good.”

“I’m not Kenny. Have you been drinking?” More shuffling can be heard at the end of the line.

“No!” Stan says defensively, before backtracking, “A little bit.”

“Oh my god…” The voice at the other end of the phone sighs, “Where are you?”

Stan opens his eyes. His vision is still spinning - he can barely make out his surroundings. It’s nauseating. “Ugh… I don’t know… there're trees and shit.” His eyes fall shut again, his vision off-kilter and nauseating to even think about. The darkness hardly does anything to improve this.

“Oh wow, thanks, Stan! There are trees! We’re in fucking South Park; there are trees everywhere! Are you sure you’re not drunk?!”

“‘M not drunk.” Stan says sheepishly.

“Oh my God, just tell me where you are!” The other voice yells. Stan winces at the volume of it.

“Stop being so loud,” He whines. “You’re too loud.”

“Stan, so help me, God; if you don’t tell me where you are, I will kill you when I find you.” They hiss, and there’s an undeniable tremor in their voice. So Stan opens his eyes again and tries to look around, but everything is spinning, and he can’t even lift his head.

“I don’t know…” Stan mumbles. Tears begin to fill his eyes. “There’s a… erm… a bench over there,” He turns his head, inhaling a sharp breath at the nausea that accompanies the movement. “That’s…I think that’s the pier. And then more trees. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.” Stan’s bottom lip trembles. “I thought Kyle was here, but he’s not. He hates me.” He can feel the tears rising once again, his thumb moving to rest over the red end-call button.

“No, no, Stan, you’re doing great.” The other voice is breathing heavily, forcing the words out between breathless gasps, though their gentle demeanour does little to reassure Stan. He might have heard the sound of shoes slapping loudly against concrete too, if he weren’t so far gone. “Stay with me. I think I know where you are.”

Stan’s eyes widen at the other end of the line. “Wait, hold on, don’t–no, don’t look at me like this… please, Ken, just leave me alone.”

Before the other person can even finish yelling Stan’s name, he’s hanging up. Soon he’s left only with the sound of the wind rustling the bare branches around him and the feeling of ice-cold snow slapping against his skin. He shivers and curls up a little more, trying to use his arm as a makeshift pillow.

All Stan wants to do is sleep this awful day away. The alcohol doesn’t feel good anymore. It hasn’t settled right in his stomach, and he’s trying to steady his breathing, but he can't even think straight enough to move cohesively. He just gets colder and wearier as the night crawls on, too tired to even care about the person shouting his name in the distance. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react, and doesn’t even really register what is happening until he’s being hauled upright. Stan retches at the sudden movement but manages to hold down the bile before he’s pulled into a crushing hug by Kyle.

He cradles Stan close to his chest as he sobs uncontrollably, holding him as though he were dying. Stan feels like he's dying too, so he supposes that going out in the arms of the boy whose heart he broke and whose trust he destroyed is a deserving end for him. His frigid hands move clumsily to seek solace in Kyle’s hair as the other cries, babbling nonsensically about how scared he’s been and how happy he is to have found Stan.

“Don’t ever do that again, Stan! Oh my God, I was so scared!” Kyle pushes him away from his embrace, holding an almost limp Stan at arms-length. “You’re freezing cold, how long have you been out here?!”

“Dunno. I’m sorry.” Stan mumbles. His head falls forward, like it’s too heavy for him to support.

“Do you even know where you are?” Kyle asks. His voice is no longer panicked, splitting Stan’s head with the volume and jumbled words. But it still shakes, like Kyle is afraid of something. He pulls Stan back in, and Stan doesn’t know how much more rapid movement he can handle before he vomits everywhere.

“I saw you, Ky. But you weren’t here.” Stan says, hands carding through Kyle’s tangled curls. The rhythmic action soothes him just slightly, settling his stomach and slowing his breathing. All he can really do is take it in - Kyle is here, and Kyle is holding him.

“I’m here now, Stan. I’m gonna get you home, okay?” Stan looks up again. Kyle’s brow is knit with worry. His heart pangs with guilt all of a sudden, and his hands begin to work to clumsily push Kyle’s own off him.

“I don’t wanna go home.” He replies shortly. Images of his guitar flash in his mind once more, souring Stan’s already terrible mood. But Kyle’s face only twists in confusion, and Stan is beginning to feel even smaller and more scrutinised than before. His gaze drops shamefully once again,

“Well you can’t stay out here. You realise you’re on Stark’s, right? It’s frozen over again.” Kyle says shortly, in that voice that Stan knows the meaning of all too well.

I’m right, and you know I am, dummy.

Stan pauses for a moment. He knows this feeling; he has felt it a million times over. This feeling would swell into guilt and manifest itself in Stan giving into Kyle. Every single time, without fail, because Kyle was always right, and even if he wasn't, he was strong-willed enough to make Stan believe that he was. It was always how it had been, Stan following Kyle out of mindless and blind admiration. But not today, because they’re not even a thing anymore. Nobody is following anybody, and Stan knows with full certainty that Kyle does not want him trailing behind him anymore, pathetic and without purpose.

“Maybe I just wanted to skate or something.” He shoots back stubbornly.

“Really? Drunk? At one in the morning?” Kyle sounds wholly unconvinced. Stan imagines he’s got that look on his face - straight mouth and thick eyebrows quirked up in complete, full judgement.

“Yep.”

Kyle sighs. It’s defeated and desperate - but it’s no longer Stan’s duty to fix that and make it right.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” All of a sudden, Kyle is tugging him upright again, his slender fingers digging deep into his biceps. Stan is sure that if he were sober, it’d hurt a lot more.

“Nothing. I’m fine, I’m great. Why do you care, anyway?” Stan spits, his head lolling back uncomfortably. He can hardly make out Kyle’s facial features, ones he knows he will still shamefully catch himself admiring even after Kyle has left him again.

“Because I’m worried about you? Is that really so hard for you to believe?”

“I don’t need your… your worry.” Stan is struggling to find the words he wants, struggling to think of something to say that will make Kyle leave. He knows that, for as long as Kyle keeps coming back to pity him and care for him no matter how badly he hurts the other, Stan will never be able to move on.

“Let me do this for you, Stan! I want to help you! This isn’t safe, this isn’t you, why… why won’t you let me help you?!” Stan squeezes his eyes shut as Kyle’s volume climbs. It’s too much - he can feel the hopelessness vibrating painfully within his skull.

“What can you even do? Just leave me alone.” Stan replies, and his absolute misery shines through in his tone.

“I don't know, okay?! I don't fucking know how to help you, I wouldn’t even know where to start. But please let me try, Stan. Please.” It’s all Kyle can say before he’s overcome by tears, hands trembling, and shoulders tense. He pulls Stan back in for a crushing hug, so warm and so strong, and it’s the move that finally makes Stan break once and for all.

He too begins to cry - ugly tears that flow and never seem to stop. He buries his face into Kyle’s shoulder, his entire body shaking as he sobs.

But Kyle never lets go. One arm is hooked under Stan’s and holding him up, fingers splayed across his back; the other is smoothing down his wet hair. He’s been so cold for so long, and now he’s finally warming up.

“Do you remember all those times you’d talk to me? You know, when you’d come and sit with me and I’d tell you to fuck off, but you just kept talking? It made me feel fucking human again, Stan. I haven't had anyone to talk to in so fucking long - not since you, not until you again. It felt like you just understood that without even knowing what I needed. Hell, even I didn’t know how much it meant. I need you so much, you don't even know. I'm so sorry for being a jackass all these years. I shouldn't have pushed you away.” Kyle’s tears seem to have finally slowed. Stan still shakes with the occasional sob that rises within him, listening, taking in every single one of Kyle’s words.

Suddenly, he feels eight again, listening to Kyle just talk. In that voice that Cartman would complain about being whiny and annoying, that voice that Stan could never quite get enough of. He lets out a wet laugh, his bottom lip trembling as his fingers curl tighter into Kyle’s jacket.

“I’m so sad without you.” He mumbles into Kyle’s jacket, “I’m sorry I messed everything up. I really, really didn’t mean to.” His arms tighten around Kyle as if he never wants to let him go. “Please let me make it up to you.”

Kyle stiffens for a moment, then relaxes again with a sigh. “Yeah, I’m still pissed about that. But right now, I just want you to be safe. Please, Stan, come home with me. We can talk about everything when I know you’re okay.”

“No, no, I wanna make it up to you now! You gotta know how sorry I am!” Stan exclaims, his head shooting up from its previous position so that he can properly look at Kyle. Even with his spinning vision, Stan can see that Kyle is smiling. It’s small, but it’s there, and hope swells in his chest.

“We can start again tomorrow. For now, I just want you to be safe and off the ice.” He replies.

“It’s fine,” Stan says, his voice still dreamy and far-away, “It’s never broken before.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, accompanied only by Stan’s occasional sniffles. Eventually, Kyle pulls away from their embrace, having to use both hands to push himself to his feet. He lets out a few quiet sounds of pain as he does this, but Stan doesn’t seem to notice. He’s since reverted back to the position he’d been in when Kyle first found him, his stomach twisting with nausea and all his limbs feeling like bricks.

“Are you just gonna lie there forever? It’s cold as fuck.” Kyle says, but he’s smiling as he says it. He looks relieved, happy, and a little windswept all at once. He extends a hand out for Stan to grasp onto, his eyes flitting nervously between him and the ice.

“Maybe I’ll just become a seal, or something. Yeah. I’ll quit hockey, stay here, and become a seal. You’ll have to come and feed me fish every day.” Stan says giddily, unable to finish his sentence without giggling. He shuffles forward a little on his stomach, only managing a short distance before nausea overcomes him. He doesn’t hear the deafening crack that sounds through the night, only seeing Kyle stumble back a few steps.

Then there’s another crack, and in one terrifying moment, Stan is plunged into frigid waters. He gasps at the sheer cold, hands flailing for something, anything to grab onto, but all he finds is more water. Briefly, he’s convinced that this is it for him. In the last second that he wants to live again, despite the nausea, despite everything, it is only now that he’s done for. This is what he deserves, he thinks, now that he’s completely submerged in the water. A proper punishment for someone like him.

Kyle deserves somebody better than him, and he knows this. If he goes right here, right now, it’ll be easier for everyone involved. No more begging for forgiveness, and no more dragging people down with him. Regardless of how he feels or how happy he was seconds ago, his death would still be a net positive for the world and those around him.

It’s sort of bittersweet. His lungs are already starting to burn and his hands are still outstretched, but he feels strangely at peace. The world would keep on spinning without him there to see it, and everyone would be better off in the aftermath.

Stan feels like he’s drowning forever, but it’s only seconds before hands that are strong and secure find his forearms and pull. He’s hauled from the numbingly cold water by a breathless Kyle, who has since fallen to his knees from the exertion.

“You fucking idiot!” He explodes suddenly, and before Stan can register what the hell has just happened, Kyle is tugging him ungraciously to his feet and slinging an arm under his shoulders. Stan's teeth jitter so hard that he can’t even speak, just allowing himself to be pulled to solid ground by his best friend.

“Oh my god, we need to get you home; you were cold as fuck as it is, and now look at you! I swear to God, if you die now, Stan, I’ll never—”

“Kyle?” Stan interrupts his ramblings, looking up at Kyle like he’d hung the moon and stars and not just saved him from his own idiocy. His face is framed by the pale light, and the stress in his features is emphasised. Stan is adamant that despite all his friend has been through and despite all the changes he has undergone both inside and out, Kyle is still the most beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on. He swears up and down that there is nobody else quite like him - that there could be a million Kyle Broflovskis, and none of them would be quite as perfect as Stan’s Kyle.

“Yeah?” Kyle eventually replies, eyes trained on a sopping-wet Stan. He looks like he might be trying not to cry again.

“I love you. I’m sorry, I just keep hurting you.”

Kyle falters for a moment, his eyebrows stitched together like he’s searching for a response. His gaze eventually falls to the ground, and he doesn’t look back at Stan.

“You’re drunk. You don’t even know what you’re saying.” Kyle says after a moment. Stan tilts his head in confusion.

“I still mean it.”

“Can we just talk about this tomorrow? When you’re sober?” Kyle asks, and it almost sounds like a desperate plea.

“Okay.” Stan finally relents. He’s getting too tired to talk anyway. His wet hair is tracking droplets of water down his face, and his jaw aches from how much his teeth are chattering.

They begin the long walk home under the falling snow and orange street lights. Kyle doesn’t look back again, with Stan settling for admiring the awkward, hazy view of his profile. He can’t seem to get enough of it, occasionally letting out childish giggles at the sight of Kyle’s unruly bedhead.

They finish the rest of the walk back to Kyle’s in silence. Stan can appreciate that it’s a comfortable sort of quiet this time, as opposed to all the bouts of awkwardness they’ve shared during recent months. He likes these sort of tender moments with Kyle, where they say nothing but everything at the same time.

They have to stop a few times to let Stan vomit on strangers’ lawns, with Kyle there to rub his back and stop him from falling face-first into his own mess before running off every time. Stan thinks that maybe it’s all a fit of his drunken imagination - that Kyle is here and that he’s not leaving. He’s been taunted by so many false visions tonight that he hopes it’s something that won’t be gone when he wakes up in the morning. For now, all he can do is stay close to Kyle, in his arms, feeling his warmth, and hope that it will be enough to warm himself back up again too.

By the time they reach the Broflovski household, Stan feels too heavy and cold to continue walking. Kyle grumbles as he drags him up the steps to the front door. It becomes somewhat of an awkward dance, with Kyle attempting to keep Stan upright with one arm and trying to edge the door open with the other. When he finally cracks it wide enough for them to get through, they’re hit by a pleasant warmth that Stan is endlessly grateful for. The feeling in his hands is quick to return once Kyle has shut the door behind them, shutting out all the snow for good.

“Fuck, we need to get you dry… shower’s probably best…” Kyle mumbles under his breath as he bends down to unlace Stan’s ratty, soaked shoes. He feels a little lost without the previous support and has to reach for the bannister post to hold himself up. Kyle slides the sneakers off his feet with a grimace, kicking his own shoes off as he pulls himself stiffly to his feet. He resumes his previous position, looping careful arms around Stan to begin hoisting him up the stairs.

It’s by far the most difficult part of the journey, with Kyle struggling with an uncooperative Stan. All he can do is giggle at the framed photos adorning the wall as Kyle attempts to get him to move. His tugs become stronger and more desperate the longer Stan stares at the same photograph of five-year-old Kyle, one that hadn’t been replaced since they were around ten, until Stan is falling on top of his friend in a heap on the landing. They share awkward eye contact for a moment until Kyle pushes Stan off him, looking less than pleased about their predicament.

Stan is left to pull himself to his feet, staggering down the hall to the bathroom behind Kyle. The light is suddenly flicked on, causing him to squint. The room hasn’t changed too much since the last time Stan was here - a few more shampoo bottles here and there, a different mat on the tiled floor. Kyle is busying himself with getting towels and turning on the shower with the handle that has always been stiff and hasn’t seemed to be fixed. Water begins to fall after a moment, and Kyle turns back to look at Stan.

Now that there is a light above his head, Stan can see how strained Kyle’s features are. Lines of worry etch his forehead, just visible beneath his straggly hair, and he can’t seem to meet his friend’s eyes.

“You’re not gonna kill yourself if I leave you?” Kyle asks, blunt as ever.

Stan frowns, beginning to peel his jacket from his cold skin. “No. Why are you leaving me?”

“You need clean clothes, dummy. I was gonna get you some while you got showered.” He says, pushing past Stan and closing the door behind him. He stands for a second, stunned, as he tries to process what Kyle had just told him. He’s quick to give up when he realises he’s retained none of it, gratefully stripping off his dripping clothes and submerging himself in warm water.

It burns at first, but Stan doesn’t really notice. He soaks in the heat for a good few moments, letting it fall over his hair, skin, and everything else. It feels like the night is being washed away, even though he’s still struggling to stand straight and he can’t read the bottles of product he’s generously lathering onto himself. He’s no longer cold and no longer feels bile clinging to his chin when he shuts off the water and wraps one of the towels around his waist. Kyle still isn’t back, and Stan doesn’t trust himself to make it to his room on drunken muscle memory alone.

As he’s waiting, Stan catches sight of himself in the mirror. He’s met with a sloppy, distorted version of himself that he barely recognises. The first thought that comes to mind, rather, is how much he looks like his father right now. He recoils, but the vision doesn’t fade.

He’s not really thinking straight when he begins to frantically open drawers, searching with shaking hands. His hearing rings and his breathing is heavy as his eyes land on a pair of scissors, and he feels like he’s going to collapse as he brings them to his hair and begins to cut. Gone is the untidy mullet, sad and unkempt like his father’s hair after a night spent at Skeeter’s. He doesn’t hear Kyle bursting into the room either, and he doesn’t register how he fights to break the scissors from Stan’s grasp.

When it feels like he’s finally coming to, he’s in a puddle on the floor, chest heaving and tears streaming down his cheeks. There are clumps of hair on the floor around them, and Kyle is attempting to gently pull a shirt over Stan’s head. He’s pliant in his best friend’s arms, no longer struggling, letting Kyle adjust the shirt and then pull him in for a tight hug.

“Are you okay, now?” It’s calmer than before. Less agitated. Stan nods slightly, from his safe space on Kyle's shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I did it again. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Stan says between cries.

“I’m okay. You’re the one that just cut off his hair.” Kyle says plainly, earning a wet chuckle from Stan. “Why’d you do it?”

“Dunno. Just felt like a change.” Stan hums as Kyle begins to rub soothing circles into his back. If he pretends hard enough, he can trick himself into believing that this is like the good times all over again. Back when Stan wasn’t the last person Kyle wanted to be in a room with, and this was about more than just being a kind, caring human being.

“Dude, it’s way too early for haircuts. It’s all choppy, too.”

“Don’t care. I like it.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“Who cares? I’ll probably like it anyway.”

Kyle snorts, in the same way Stan used to try to purposefully get him to let out the noise, and begins to pull away.

“Finish getting changed. You need sleep.” He says, and this time he stays. Kyle helps him to his feet, averts his eyes as Stan pulls on the borrowed boxers and pyjamas, and assists him in brushing the vomit from his teeth. It seems to drag on forever, but soon enough, Kyle is guiding Stan across the darkened landing and to his bedroom. It’s much too dim to make out anything discernible, but Kyle’s bed is warm and inviting when he’s laid in it. The sheets smell fresh, and there aren't any springs digging into his back. But somehow, it still feels empty.

As Kyle finishes arranging the sheets around Stan, he begins to back away wordlessly. It’s just about all he can see, and it scares him. Kyle is drifting again when Stan has just gotten him back, and the pit that begins to open up in his stomach is insurmountable. He’s promptly stopped by Stan’s hand, flying to grasp his wrist in the dark.

“Are you leaving me?” Stan asks. He doesn’t bother to whisper.

“I’m letting you sleep. I’ll crash on the couch; it’s fine.” Kyle whispers back, attempting to wrench his wrist from Stan’s grasp.

“Please stay with me, Kyle.” His voice drops again, and he doesn’t seem to recognise how truly pathetic it sounds. Even when Stan wasn’t himself, the only thing that remained constant was his need to keep Kyle beside him. He’s never changed, never really grown out of that need; he just adapted to a lonely few years without it. Now that Kyle is back, Stan is unsure of how he’s meant to go back to how he was living before, despite it being his new normal.

“Stan, I can’t…” Kyle weakly begs, looking away again.

“Please.”

Then, Kyle is sighing. He’s lifting the blanket and shuffling under it next to Stan, turning to face away from him.

“Is this okay?” Kyle asks after a moment. His voice is barely enough to be heard by Stan.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

Kyle pauses for a moment. He still doesn’t turn to face Stan, simply pulling the covers up to obscure his nose and face.

“Goodnight, Stan. I’m here if you need anything.”

“‘Night, Kyle. I love you.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, the night of blackout drinking, vomiting, and crying over all that has been lost is the easy part of this tired routine. For Stan, waking up the next morning is the hardest.

He’s never been a morning person, even as a kid. He’s never liked leaving the warm confines of his bed, and absolutely hates the frigid walk to the bus stop at ungodly hours. His stomach churns at the thought of doing it now, and Stan thinks he’d rather die.

Sunlight leaks in through a gap in Kyle’s curtains. A small strip of the watery light lands on Stan’s face, pulling him from his deep sleep. His eyes flutter open for a brief moment, before falling shut again.

He doesn’t exactly feel refreshed. His head hurts, pounds, even, and his stomach feels queasy. And despite his exhaustion, Stan’s mind is already racing with dread. His limbs feel uncomfortably heavy, and no matter what position he tries to move himself into, his nausea drags him further away from sleep.

It’s almost instinct when Stan begins to reach for Kyle. He’s pathetically predictable, yet, his fingers don’t brush against soft hair or warm skin, nor do they find anything for his trembling hands to latch onto. The bed is cold and empty, save for the crumpled sheets where Kyle had fallen asleep just hours ago. But Stan’s hands still search, roaming the bed for anything, something he can’t see, something he can’t let slip away from him again.

Eventually, Stan finds the strength to open his eyes. His eyelids feel heavy, and the temptation to simply fall back into a deep sleep is ever-taunting. The weak sunlight that leaks through the curtains sends a searing pain through Stan’s head. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he knows now that he won’t be going back to sleep. His head is stationary where it rests on the pillow, but still feels like it’s spinning and spinning, like a record on a cruel, broken loop. Everything aches. His head, his legs, everything, yet he has no memory of the previous night.

After a moment of fruitless struggle, a hand falls on his shoulder. Stan doesn’t feel the contact, just the comfortable weight of it.

“Ssshh, stop moving. You really overdid it last night.” A voice says, calm and low and so, so familiar. The hand moves up just slightly to comb through the stray hairs that ghost over Stan’s neck, before the contact is gone for good. He lets out a noncommittal groan, managing to move his head just enough to see Kyle perched on the edge of the bed.

He’s looking down at Stan, worry carving deep into his facial features. His curls are unkempt, and he looks like he’s just woken up, clad in a faded band tee and bunched up sweatpants. The dark circles under Kyle’s eyes are more prominent than ever and aren’t missed by a still ever-so-slightly tipsy, hungover Stan.

“You doing okay?” Kyle asks, his voice just loud enough for Stan to hear. His hand rests on the bed, twitching, like it wants to move but can’t.

“Feel like shit. What even happened?” He mumbles in response, lifting an aching arm to cover his eyes.

“A lot. You cut off all your hair.” Kyle says. It’s deadpan, honest - Stan finds himself bolting upright when he hears those words.

“What—” He has to cut himself off, pain and dizziness shooting through his skull. Kyle immediately reaches to catch him, two hands splayed across Stan’s back, holding him steady.

“Jesus, dude, be a little more careful.” He says, “I got you some water and painkillers. I dunno if you need anything else.”

With one hand still supporting Stan, Kyle reaches for two pills on his bedside table. Stan’s mouth falls open, just enough for Kyle to gently press the pills into his tongue with his index and pointer finger. They stay there while Kyle grabs the glass of water next, leaving a gross, sweet taste in Stan’s mouth. The hand on his back moves gently to the back of Stan’s head, fingers entangling with mussed up hair as Kyle brings the glass to Stan’s lips. It’s cold, and like nectar slipping down his throat when Kyle gently tips his head back to assist him in drinking it.

The act should feel intimate, but it’s all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Kyle lays Stan back down once he’s swallowed the painkillers, and he’s more than grateful for the stability the pillow and mattress underneath him provide, but Kyle doesn’t lay back down with him. Instead, he gives Stan a long look. It’s a wistful, almost sad look, and all Stan finds himself capable of doing is looking back. His hand inches closer to Kyle’s as it seeks out just that little extra comfort. Kyle’s hand finds its way back into his own lap, away from Stan’s.

There are things that Stan wants to say and questions he wants to ask so badly, but his mouth and brain don’t seem to be cooperating. Continuing to lay here, powerless to do anything but look up at Kyle in all his despair and all his despondent glances, sends all the words scrambling in his head until they make no sense at all. So he says nothing - he just stares, so pitifully and so desperately.

“You really overdid it last night.” Kyle repeats, in that melancholy tone that Stan hates. He knows he did, because he can’t remember a single detail from the night before. Just that distant pain of losing a match that meant everything, and of losing friends that meant even more.

“I don’t even remember what happened.” Stan replies noncommittally. He’s trying to at least divert his mind from those memories, but the sharp crack of his guitar as it hit his matted carpet rings over and over in his head, as if Randy is trying to drive it through his skull. He brings a hand up to run it through his hair, and he can feel just how choppy the cut is. There’s no more comforting length to it, nothing for Stan to hide behind when he’s not feeling himself. He’s sure his horror is evident on his face too, from the way that Kyle’s features seem to soften when the realisation hits.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” He says, unsure, “I’m sure we can tidy it up.”

But that’s not what Stan wants. He wants his hair back, and he wants his dignity back. He definitely does notwant to be someone’s charity case–especially when that someone has made his opinion on Stan very clear. Yet, he can’t leave. Stan is sure that he’d hurl up the contents of his stomach and then subsequently die if he even made an attempt to do so.

“Whatever.” He almost spits, and rolls onto his side, facing away from Kyle.

“Okay, be like that.” Stan hears him say after a short moment of silence. It’s irritated, bruised with anger. If they were anything short of normal, his words would have probably been loaded with much more anger. But they’re not, because they’re Stan and Kyle, and as much as Stan wishes they could be normal, nothing about them ever has been and never will be.

“Do you want me to leave? ‘Cause I’ll leave, dude.” Stan bites back, though he’s really just talking to Kyle’s wall, “And then you’ll never have to see me again, just like you want.”

It’s a struggle, but Stan manages to push himself upright. His arms tremble with the exertion and sweat beads easily on his forehead, uneven hair sticking uncomfortably to his skin. But Kyle is there immediately, because he always will be when Stan gets himself into a mess, to hold him, support him, coax him back into lying down.

“Absolutely not. It snowed so bad last night, I’m not letting you go out in it.” He says, and Stan knows he’s made up his mind despite how impractical it seems to be. Always Kyle to make the decisions, and Stan to forever follow behind him.

“But I only live next door?” Stan weakly protests. He’s on his back again, Kyle in full view above him. His hands are still on Stan, his touch burning, leaving behind huge welts that will surely scar and mark.

“You can’t even stand up.” Kyle says, and Stan can’t really rebuke that. To be honest, he can’t even sit up.

“You don’t want me here in the first place.” Stan whispers. It’s just enough for Kyle to hear, for his face to twist with foreign emotion that Stan can’t quite place.

“Ah…listen, I didn’t… I didn’t mean that, Stan.” Kyle seems to be choosing his words with care, like Stan might break if he has to hear the full brunt of his old friend’s honesty. “You know that.”

“It sure sounded like you did.” He mutters, and a silence fills the room. Kyle’s expression is unreadable, full of foreign emotion that Stan can no longer read on his aged, unfamiliar face. It’s been so long that Kyle has willingly been this vulnerable in front of him, but he supposes it’s just another cruel twist of circumstance - where Stan and Kyle are bound together, squeezed and pulled apart with everything they don’t want to show on full display. Kyle doesn’t want to be like this, much less show it off in front of someone who can’t seem to stop hurting him.

The silence seems to make the minutes drag painfully, and Stan feels his eyes falling comfortably shut. He’s not asleep, but doesn’t want to be awake either.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to believe me, but I really didn’t mean that. I was angry, and pissed - god, I still am - but I don’t want you to leave me.”

Stan makes no effort to move, doesn’t attempt to open his eyes. He waits, waits for this nightmare to be over, until he can go home and pretend that the night that doesn’t even feel that real to him never happened in the first place.

“I don’t fucking get you, you know.” Stan mutters all of a sudden. He cracks an eye open, just in time to see Kyle’s expression as it cycles through various emotions. “You need help, so I try to do something. But that’s not good enough, that’s not what you need, even though it’s exactly what you need? What did I do wrong?”

He knows he’s probably not making any sense to Kyle, but in his head, the words are perfectly logical.

“I didn’t want you to help me, though.”

“Ike getting kicked off the team wasn’t meant to happen. But now people know about how he’s treated you - it’s out there, dude. Something can be done!”

“No it can’t! I told you, you just don’t get it!”

“What is it, then? What don’t I get?”

Kyle seems to stumble over himself for a moment, before sighing in exasperation. A hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not getting into this shit right now, Stan. You could have died last night. You think I’m just gonna skip over that?!” Kyle’s voice breaks a little, and Stan can’t help the guilt that surges over him.

“Sorry for worrying you.” He mutters quietly. His eyes fall again, not daring to meet Kyle’s. Stan knows that he’s judging him - the same way countless others have before. But somehow, when it’s Kyle, the same boy that had grown up with him and had seen Stan split at the seams so many times before, his mortification only seems to grow.

There’s a slight, jilted pause before Kyle replies. “It’s okay. God, Stan, you scared me, though.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for that. I’m just glad you called me.”

Stan just chuckles in response, but it’s empty and joyless. It’s still a struggle for him to believe that any of this concern is anything but a manifestation of Kyle’s guilty conscience, and as the patches of his fuzzy memory begin to stitch themselves together, the thin line between kindness and obligation blurs even more. He doesn’t believe he’s deserving of this attention and care, not one bit, but he’ll let himself bask in it as long as Kyle insists he should.

Weak sunlight is still shining on Stan’s face. Some of the rays catch parts of Kyle’s hair from across the bed, and Stan finds himself fixated on the sight. It’s constant, stable, and calms his nausea down, but Kyle doesn’t notice anyway.

“I still don’t think I was wrong for trying to help you.” Stan says. The words seem to tumble from his mouth before he can catch them. He knows he’s making this all worse, that Kyle will almost definitely kick him out for still trying to argue back. But even as Kyle rolls his eyes in irritation and opens his mouth to protest Stan’s words, he finds himself speaking over him again.

“But I do get that the way I went around doing it was shitty. I know you don’t believe me, but I really didn’t mean for anything to happen to Ike. I’ve felt fucking terrible over it. But if you don’t believe me, then there’s nothing I can do.”

“I don’t know, Stan. I want to believe you, but I…I just don't know.” Kyle frowns. His brows are knit in frustration, and his fists are clenched tight. He’s still and silent for another moment, eyes trained on the disturbed bedding, seemingly deep in thought.

“At least promise me you won’t go off and do something like this again? ‘Cause if you really are trying to help, it’s not gonna make anything better.” He finally says, not lifting his head.

“That’s harsh. Maybe if we just-“

“Stan!” Kyle’s tone is practically pleading, “Promise me, please.”

“Okay, fine. I promise.” Stan finally relents, but he’s so frustrated that nothing seems to have come from this at all. Him and Kyle are still at a crossroads, he’s no better than he had been, and the swirl in his stomach only seems to grow with his guilt. He really had only tried to make things better, but had lost more people in the process than the only one he’d actually been trying to get rid of.

He ends up slipping back into silence. With nothing more to say, nothing more to argue about with Kyle, there isn’t anything else he can really do. Stan’s throat is still a little scratchy, and he hasn’t drank enough water, so he’s grateful that Kyle doesn’t seem to be trying to pry out some kind of follow-up to his hesitant promise. He really does wish that they didn’t have to be here - sat together in uncomfortable silence after a night of awful reconciliation. But it’s how the stars seem to have aligned, despite how much Stan had prayed and hoped they’d meet again under better circumstances.

It could have all been so avoidable. If Kyle wasn’t stubborn, so stuck in his ways, if Stan hadn’t managed to lose his usually cool temper in such a dire moment. There are so many things he could’ve done differently, should’ve done differently - but so many things he believes couldn’t have been done any other way. It’s just an unfortunate consequence of life, he supposes, but his life is filled with so many of these that he’s starting to grow a little tired of them happening.

“Is this…is this why you were at the lake??” Kyle asks suddenly, his voice small and slightly hesitant, as if he were doing his best to not sound intrusive or nosey, and snapping Stan out of his moping train of thoughts. He looks up briefly, just enough for Stan to catch a glimpse of his green eyes under his hair, but his head is quick to drop again.

The question seems loaded, but Stan’s memory of the night before seems to have recovered just enough for him to piece together a vague timeline of miserable events. He’s sure Kyle doesn’t even care to hear about it, that he’ll scorn Stan for folding so easily and so quickly over things that were his own doing.

“My dad, he, uh, smashed up my guitar. That one we bought with Kenny ages ago. I dunno, on top of losing to Adams County and, like, everything, I think it just broke me a bit. Didn’t wanna have to feel like shit anymore.” Tears are beginning to collect in Stan’s eyes. He wipes them away with a shaky swipe of his hand, head down.

“Jesus. I’m sorry, dude. ” Kyle says in response. His voice is aghast, and if Stan had the courage to lift his head, he’d see the guilt-riddled look on his face too.

“It was stupid. I’ve been clean for almost a year, why is this the thing that fucks it all up for me?” Stan’s voice is wavering as he blinks back more tears, refusing to let any fall.

“It’s not stupid, Stan, it’s what happens sometimes, and it just sounds like it had all been building up for a while. God, I’m sorry I contributed to that.”

“Fuck off, it wasn’t you. I was so mad at myself for what I did to you and Ike. And… and I just wanted everything to be okay between us.” Stan says, pressing his palms into his eyes to stop fresh tears from flowing. He hates having to be vulnerable, and the shame of Kyle knowing his secrets is just too much to bear. Kyle, who used to be his best friend - who hates him to his rotten, poisonous core, who would gladly leave again after all the cruel things Stan has done to him. He can’t even blame him - if he were Kyle, Stan would leave him too.

Then Kyle is hugging him. It’s tight and desperate, with his head pushed deep into the crook of Stan’s neck and his arms looped around his middle like he never wants to let go again.

“I hate your dad so much.” Kyle says, his low voice vibrating against Stan’s neck. His own arms move to hook under the other boy’s shoulders, resting gently on his back. Stan knows he’s undeserving of this, that he’s selfish for letting it happen in the first place.

“They’re not gonna let me play again. I promised Coach I’d get clean. Who knows what Vaughn’s gonna do to me.”

“We can figure something out. Look, I’m supposed to have practice today. I can tell them you’re sick, or something, give you some time to get your shit together before you go back.”

Stan groans, a sudden realisation setting in. his fingers curl into Kyle’s shirt, and he’s sure the other boy will be able to hear his quickening heart rate.

“Shit, I forgot.”

“You have practice too?” Kyle asks, beginning to drag his nails gently across Stan’s back in a calming motion. Stan hums into his chest, but it’s slightly pained and sad.

Stan nods gloomily. “Vaughn’s session. And he’s wanting my head on a fucking spike, dude.” Kyle’s fingers stop their soothing motion for a moment, but soon resume. It’s slightly more jilted this time, as if he’s trying to calm his own nerves as well as Stan’s.

He really wishes he could do more for Kyle at this moment in time, but he’s sure he wouldn’t let him. Maybe it’d be on the basis that Kyle has always been headstrong and independent, able to soothe his own nerves before a class presentation and hold his own in a playground spat with Cartman, but it would probably be because Stan is an incompetent idiot that is only capable of bringing everything he touches to ruin, especially when it concerns Kyle.

It’s not that he doesn’t try. It’s just that Kyle had always been more of a mediator when it came down to it. Stan always just seemed to run from the consequences of his own self-made messes, or make things worse.

“That’s fine. I’ll figure something out.” He replies, with all the poorly masked faux confidence he could muster this early in the morning. The lilt in his voice is so unmistakable that even Stan, still slightly tipsy, picks up on it.

“You don’t have to do anything else for me. I’ve already hurt you too much.” Stan mumbles, covering his face again. The thought of Kyle and Vaughn, alone and unprotected, makes his already weak stomach churn, but he’s not exactly in the right state to swoop in and play the gallant knight again. Stan refuses to dwell on how much of a catastrophic failure it had been last time he had tried, so that his overflowing guilt doesn’t somehow spill over and flood him completely.

“I’m doing this for Ike. Just trying to make sure there’s absolutely no way he can get to him.” Kyle says, all short and clipped in that manner Stan knows is all bravado and no bravery. It’s here that he gently pushes Stan off him, holding him upright by his arms.

“Oh. Okay, yeah, that’s reasonable.” Stan mutters, and he feels his cheeks shamefully heat up a little. How stupid and selfish was he to think that Kyle would want to help him out over his own brother? Of course he wouldn’t. Stan can’t even bring himself to be sad over it - it’s not like he’d made a very good job of trying to win back Kyle’s friendship. He just hopes that maybe now that Ike is free of Vaughn’s terrifying clutches, and free of Stan’s destructive mentorship, that he’ll find a team that’ll be good to him and value him.

Maybe he’ll go on to win the state championship - No, Stan thinks, he’s definitely going to win it all. Meanwhile, Stan will be kicked off the team and left to fend for himself at the grocery store with Kenny, until he eventually dies, never escaping South Park. No - scratch that, he won’t even be with Kenny, because even he had managed to pull it together just enough to make it as some kind of biologist or chemist who can leave town forever. He’ll be able to send money home for Karen and Kevin after leaving this town, while Stan will be left all alone without even Shelley to feel pity for him.

He can’t seem to stop spiralling into wallowing, drastic visions of the future. But when he manages to pull himself away from them and bring himself back to the present, Kyle is still there. He’s still holding Stan upright with firm hands, still staring at him with those eyes that pierce straight through into his soul. On any other day it would’ve been hope, progress made and bridges repaired, because there hadn’t been a single instance since they were twelve when Kyle would’ve dared hold him like that. Today, it just makes Stan feel a little more nauseous.

Both of them had finally run out of steam, resorting to fleeting glances and occasional shifting of limbs. Stan’s feet have gone numb, and he’s dreading the uncomfortable pins and needles he’ll get the moment he has to stand up.

“Kyle?! Are you awake?!” A shrill shout from downstairs finally cuts through the tension. Kyle flinches a little, and a small, irritated scowl begins to form on his face.

“What, Ma?” Kyle shouts back, and Stan has to clamp his hands over his ears as he does. His voice reverberates painfully through his head - he hasn’t been privy to a Kyle and Sheila exchange like this since their last sleepover all those years ago. She was a loud woman, constantly pestering them about breakfast, lunch or dinner, whether Stan had any dirty laundry he needed doing ‘since he would be staying over anyway’, or whether they wanted to join her and Gerald to watch Jeopardy. They had always said no, but Stan wonders what may have been different today if he’d put a little more effort into Kyle and his family at those sleepovers.

“Aw jeez, I can’t hear what she’s saying. C’mon, we can get breakfast downstairs too.” Kyle says, reaching up to gently peel Stan’s hands away from his ears. “Come on,” he says again, with a slight smile, “I bet we’ll have something you like.”

Stan lets Kyle lead him down the hallway and down the stairs, hand in hand. They pass Ike’s room, door tightly shut, and Stan has to look away from the childish, coloured letters spelling out his name. Kyle is slow and careful, standing guard as Stan edges his way down the stairs, clinging to the bannister with his free hand. He relishes how warm and soft the carpet is under his bare feet when Kyle is pulling him through the living room and into the kitchen - it’s the only thing he can concentrate on while the rest of the house passes by in a tipsy blur.

When they stop in the entryway, Stan’s world begins to stop spinning. Kyle drops his hand and his vision is starting to refocus, and he can hear a woman weeping somewhere in front of him. It takes a moment before the picture becomes clear - his mother, hair unkempt and face streaming with tears.

“Stanley? Oh my God, baby, what happened to you?!” Sharon cries when she lays red-rimmed eyes on him. His eyes widen - he can’t find any words to say to her.

Stan can’t bring himself to look up when Sharon pulls him into a suffocating hug. He can hear how her heart races and her chest heaves with emotion. She’s saying something, but he can’t really hear any of it, and her hands tremble as they rake through his chopped hair.

Stan hates every minute of it. He hates how the touch makes his awful haircut even more obvious. Hates how Sheila and Gerald watch from across the kitchen, as the boy from next door becomes unrecognisable. And he especially hates how he can feel Kyle’s eyes burning into his back, as he tries to push away selfish thoughts of his old friend caring for him more than just out of obligation. The attention is making his skin crawl now that it’s more than just Kyle, and he wants nothing more than to shut himself up in his room and never leave again.

“I’m sorry,” Is all he can choke out after a moment. Sharon tightens her hands around him.

“No, baby, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, it’s okay,” She cries, but it barely penetrates Stan at all. It feels like more of an attempt on Sharon’s behalf to comfort herself, but Stan’s sure the sight of him looking half-dead in his ex-friend’s kitchen would’ve been enough to kill her on the spot.

“We’ll get you home, and we’ll get you help, oh, it’s all going to be okay.” She continues. Stan wishes the ground would just swallow him whole.

“Mom, it’s fine, really, I just need to sleep it off-” He manages to force out, but Sharon is quick to cut him off. She pulls out of the hug, and up-close Stan can see how dishevelled she really looks.

“No, we need to get you home now. Come on, we can talk about it all properly when you’re home.” There is a tremble in her voice despite her attempt at being stern. Sharon takes him gently by the shoulder, muttering endless thank-you’s to the Broflovskis. He catches Kyle’s eyes as he’s ushered past, and they seem almost empty and lifeless, as if he’s looking straight through Stan.

“Bye.” Stan mumbles, just loud enough for Kyle to hear. It’s the last time they’ll see each other, after all.

Kyle seems to snap to attention, glassy eyes now looking straight into Stan’s. “Oh. Bye, Stan. Stay safe.”

They’re the last words Stan hears before he's shoving his feet into wet sneakers and being led out of the door by Sharon. The cold of the snow from the night before is barely even biting at his bare arms, and when they step into the house next door, it's hardly warmer.

He realises that, as he’s stood in a living room less homely and welcoming than the last he was in, that he’s still in Kyle’s borrowed pyjamas. Now that he can see them a little clearer, Stan recognises the gaudy pattern as being Terrance and Phillip - he can’t help but let out a laugh. Of course Kyle, so grown up at sixteen years old, wouldn’t wear such childish pyjamas anymore. Stan wonders if they’d been a gift from his parents, or a distant cousin, how embarrassed he’d been to receive them. The material of them is soft, and Stan thinks that Kyle would probably like them if he could get over his humiliation and just wear them. He’d always been pretty picky about the fabric of his pyjamas when they were younger.

Sparky plods into the living room, letting out a huge yawn. He circles around Stan’s legs and lets his coarse fur brush up against his Terrance and Phillip patterned pants. Stan can’t help himself but lower himself to his knees. Sparky is quick to push his face up towards his owners, short pants escaping his mouth as his tongue laps out to lick gratefully at Stan’s face while he wraps his arms around his dog’s stomach.

Kneeling on the matted, stained living room carpet with Sparky in his arms, Stan finally breaks. He weeps into his dog’s neck, fat tears that won’t stop staining his fur as he mourns the loss of his best friend. It’s a sort of funeral that hurts worse than his Grandpa’s when he was fourteen - he hadn’t even so much as shed a tear at seeing Marvin’s too-smooth face in the open casket.

But when he thinks about Kyle’s face, who’s still alive and breathing and has a face marked by the life he’s led, Stan knows he’s lost everything.