Chapter Text

Stan Marsh had been awake for exactly forty-three minutes, and he already wanted to disappear. His alarm had gone off at five sharp, but it hadn’t mattered. He’d barely slept. Filming days always left him restless for some reason. His brain ran through all the ways his dad would fake reality for entertainment.

Now, at nearly six, he sat at the kitchen island, sipping black coffee while a makeup artist dabbed concealer under his tired eyes. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was staged to perfection. The rustic farmhouse aesthetic- white wooden cabinets, copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, a spotless marble countertop- was nothing but a set. Even the groceries in the fridge were swapped out every few days by production assistants to maintain an “authentic country charm.” Never mind that Stan actually lived in a high rise apartment in Denver, or that his dad had fired the real farmhands years ago in favor of actors who pretended to do the work. Bright studio lights glared down at him, camera operators hovered around, and a producer’s voice droned through his hidden earpiece, feeding him talking points as if he were too stupid to speak for himself.

"Okay, Stan, let’s get a good reaction this time," the director, Devon, said from behind the cameras. "Remember, we want that classic Marsh charm!"

Marsh charm his ass. What a joke.

Still, Stan forced a tight smile and glanced at the breakfast spread in front of him. Farmhouse aesthetic. Homemade biscuits that were probably from a bakery in town. Eggs that had been cooked five minutes ago but were already cold from all the lighting adjustments. And, of course, Randy Marsh sat at the head of the island, grinning like the conceited king of reality television, pretending to eat his protein packed morning feast.

"Stan, say something about the farm-fresh eggs," Devon prodded.

Stan sighed, picking up his fork with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows. "Mmm, nothing like eggs straight from the—”

"Cut!" Devon’s voice rang out. "Stan, buddy, more energy. We want the viewers to feel like they’re right here with you!"

Annoyed, Stan dropped his fork and ran a hand down his face. "They’re not here with me. They’re watching this from their couch while scrolling through their phones."

Randy let out a booming laugh, then gave Stan a too-hard slap on the back. "That’s my boy, always the comedian!" He turned toward the cameras with that rehearsed twinkle in his eye. "What can I say? The Marshs keep it real!"

Stan resisted the urge to gag. There was nothing real about Making It with the Marshs.

Thirteen years ago, this had just been a farm. A regular old farm that Stan had already resented because he’d been ripped from his suburban childhood to come live in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. At the time, he’d thought that was the worst thing in the world. Oh boy, had he been wrong.

The worst thing in the world was the Marsh brand blowing up on social media, the cameras invading every fucking inch of their lives, and his dad turning into a fame-hungry control freak. The worst thing was realizing that his entire adolescence was scripted, directed, edited, and sold for entertainment.

Stan was no Superman, but he finally understood why Clark Kent needed a secret identity. Only, there was no disguise, no escape for him. No matter how much he tried to separate Stan Marsh, the private person from Stan Marsh, reality TV personality, it was all the same guy. He wasn’t leading a double life. He was leading no life at all.

Across the table, his sister Shelley stirred her coffee, her face blank, her mind clearly elsewhere. Of all the Marshs, she was the least cooperative when it came to playing the part. The family grump, as the producers liked to call her, she never faked excitement or hammed it up for the cameras. She’d perfected the art of delivering just the right amount of dialogue to keep the audience interested without giving them anything real.

"You good, Shelley?" Stan muttered under his breath.

She gave him a slow, deadpan blink and took a sip of coffee. "Ecstatic."

Stan almost smirked. Shelley’s complete and utter lack of enthusiasm was one of the few things that made these filming days bearable.

"Okay, people, let’s get some energy in here!" Devon clapped his hands. "Randy, give us some of that famous Marsh wisdom. Stan, answer like you actually want to be here."

So Stan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and turned toward his dad, waiting for the next pearl of wisdom to fall from his lips. Ugh.

Randy grinned and gestured around. "Now, folks, let me tell you somethin’: life on the farm is about hard work, family, and..."

At some point, Stan tuned him out. He could recite this speech in his sleep. All he could think about was how badly he needed to get out of here. Out of the cameras, out of the staged family moments, out of the whole fucking Marsh empire. But he was trapped. As long as his dad had a contract, as long as his name was attached to the show, he could never fully disappear. Unless he did something drastic.

His grip tightened around his coffee mug. He didn’t know where he’d go, or how he’d pull it off, but one thing was certain: He had to get out before this reality show finished rotting whatever was left of his brain.

A couple of hours later, he sat stiffly on the white wooden fence bordering the Marsh Family Farm. His boots were caked in a carefully applied amount of mud, courtesy of the show’s producers. It was one of the little details that made the Marshs look like a real, hardworking farm family instead of what they actually were: a group of rich suburbanites playing dress-up in plaid shirts and cowboy boots.

“Alright, Stan, let’s run that scene again,” Devon called out in that overly patient tone Stan had grown to despise over the years.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. He’d already “run that scene” three times. This was supposed to be a simple morning segment: feeding the horses, tossing some hay, flashing a charming smile for the cameras. Instead, it had turned into an hour-long ordeal because the lighting wasn’t “golden” enough and his “energy” was off.

Fuck this shit. His energy was off because he hated this.

“Stan,” Devon snapped and cut through his thoughts. “A little more enthusiasm when you throw the hay. This should feel fun. Lighthearted. You love the farm, remember?”

Stan fought the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t love the farm. He had hated it from the moment they moved in, and he hated it even more now that it had become America’s favorite fictionalized version of rural bliss.

Still, he plastered on a grin—his “Marsh Charm” smile, as the showrunners called it—and grabbed another bundle of hay. He tossed it over the fence to the horses, making sure to do it in the most photogenic way possible.

“There it is!” Devon cheered. “Perfect. Now, let’s get Shelley in here.”

Stan glanced toward the porch, where Shelley leaned against the railing with a (probably spiked) sugar free pineapple juice box. She was watching the chaos with the same scowl she always had when it came to Making It with the Marshs. Seriously, if there was one person in the family who hated this circus more than Stan, it was Shelley.

She sucked on her straw as the cameras turned on her, then said, completely monotone, “I just love mornings on the farm.”

Stan smirked. It was the closest thing she could say to “Fuck every single one of you” without getting in trouble with the producers.

Devon sighed but didn’t argue. After all, Shelley’s grumpiness had become part of the show’s appeal, the “moody older sister who secretly loves her family.” It was complete bullshit, of course, but the audience ate it up.

“Okay.” Devon rubbed his temples. “Let’s just get a shot of you two together. Maybe talk about your plans for the day?”

Shelley arched a brow at Stan. “Oh, you mean my plans to escape to my actual home the second these cameras stop rolling?”

Stan let out a sharp laugh, which would probably be edited to sound like a fond laugh in post-production. The cameraman zoomed in as they expected something witty in response.

And Stan looked directly into the lens as his smile thinned into something brittle. “Yeah, my plans are super exciting. Mostly pretending I don’t want to walk into traffic.”

“Stan!” Devon barked, panicked now.

“Cut!”

Shelley snorted and covered her mouth with her juice box. Stan just smirked. He knew they wouldn’t be able to use that take, and frankly, that was the only satisfaction he was going to get out of today.

By the time Stan pulled onto the highway leading back to Denver, his entire body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. His head pounded from the artificial lighting, the staged conversations, and the endless fake smiles he’d been forced to wear all day. The cameras were finally off, but their presence still lingered like ghosts in his peripheral vision.

He glanced at Kenny McCormick, slouched in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone with one hand and rubbing his temples with the other. The guy looked just as exhausted as Stan felt.

Kenny was the assistant to Making It with the Marshs’ executive producer (Stan's dad, of course), which meant he spent most of his time either fixing problems or dealing with Randy Marsh’s ridiculous demands. Despite being the same age as Stan, Kenny had the dead-eyed look of a man who’d worked a soul-sucking corporate job for twenty years.

"God, I need a drink," Stan muttered.

As an answer, Kenny snorted. "Yeah, and I need a new career."

The drive from South Park to Denver was long, but Stan barely noticed. It was always the same: leaving the picture-perfect "Marsh family farm" and returning to his real home, his apartment, his sanctuary. He never let the cameras follow him here, no matter how much his dad tried to argue for it.

When they finally arrived, Stan parked in the underground garage and sighed in relief as he stepped out of the car. They rode the elevator up in silence. As soon as they stepped inside the apartment, Stan headed straight for his bedroom to change. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged in jeans, a dark hoodie, and a baseball cap, his go-to undercover outfit for avoiding the paparazzi. Kenny, now in a casual button-up and ripped jeans, raised an eyebrow as he tossed his phone onto the couch.

"You sure you wanna hit a bar tonight?"

"I need to hit a bar tonight," Stan corrected. "Otherwise, I might punch a couple of holes in the nearest wall."

Kenny sighed and grabbed his keys. "But if we get caught, I’m letting you deal with the PR nightmare."

They ended up at a dimly lit bar on the outskirts of downtown, far away from the places where influencers and paparazzi lurked. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a good old-fashioned hole-in-the-wall with cheap whiskey and a decent jukebox.

Stan leaned against the bar and took a slow sip of his drink. He let the burn settle deep in his stomach and relieve some of his stress. Meanwhile, Kenny pensively nursed his own drink.

"So," Kenny finally broke the silence. "How was your fun-filled day of playing America’s Favorite Farm Boy?"

At that, Stan let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, just fantastic. Spent ten hours pretending I give a shit about farm-fresh eggs while my dad gave one of his 'Marsh wisdom' speeches. Devon kept telling me to act like I wanted to be there, and Shelley looked like she was two seconds away from throwing her coffee at the nearest camera." He took another sip. "Same shit, different day."

"Dude, you rich kids are something else. You have a hit TV show, a multi-million-dollar brand, and all you do is complain about it."

"Well, if you’d been born into this circus, you’d hate it too."

Kenny hummed and took a long sip of his whiskey. "Nah. I’m good. You know exactly I grew up in poverty. If we had cameras in my house, it would’ve been called Making It with the McCormicks—and by 'Making It,' I Mean Barely Paying Rent."

Stan chuckled despite himself. Kenny had always been blunt like that. It was part of the reason Stan liked him—he didn’t suck up or sugarcoat things. They drank in silence for a moment as they both started to feel the weight of exhaustion. Then Kenny spoke again, more seriously this time.

"So, uh… you hear the latest?"

Stan frowned. "What latest?"

"There’s a rumor floating around the production team. Your dad’s talking about a spinoff."

"What?!"

Kenny swirled his drink. "Yeah. Making It with Stan Marsh. Just you, doing your thing. Supposedly, Randy thinks it’s time you 'step into the spotlight' more. He’s been pitching ideas for months, and I guess some execs are interested."

Stan slammed his glass down on the bar loudly, causing a few heads to turn. His fists tightened. "That son of a—"

"Shhh!" Kenny glanced around nervously. "Dude, undercover, remember?"

"Another show? He’s not satisfied with just ruining my life once? He wants to milk it even more?"

"Yeah… you know how he is. Money, fame, control. He wants it all."

Stan ground his teeth. He made a mental note to confront his dad first thing in the morning. There was no way in hell he was letting this shit happen.

Meanwhile, Kenny stood up and tossed a few bills on the bar. "Alright, I’m heading out. We start filming again at six in the morning, and I’d rather not deal with your dad on three hours of sleep."

But Stan barely registered the words. His mind was too consumed with fury, frustration, and the ever-growing weight of being trapped in his own life. He hated this. Gosh, how he hated this bullshit.

Kenny sighed. "Get to bed early, alright? And don’t do anything stupid. The last thing you need is paparazzi sniffing you out again."

Whatever. Stan waved him off and already ordered another drink. He really should know better by now, but right now, he was way too pissed to think rationally.

And Kenny shortly hesitated at the door, watching him for a moment before shaking his head. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you." Then he left.

Stan didn’t go home. He kept drinking. One glass turned into two. Two turned into five. At some point, he found himself in a nightclub—loud music, flashing lights, bodies pressing together in a haze of sweat and alcohol. He wasn’t sure how he got there, and honestly, he didn’t care. The drinks kept coming. The numbness he craved finally set in. Then, lips. A girl, no, multiple girls, pulling him into messy, desperate kisses. Laughter, the feel of hands roaming his body, the blur of neon lights. Someone handed him another shot. He took it. He was far beyond reason now, beyond common sense.

He wasn’t Stan Marsh, reality TV star. He wasn’t Stan Marsh, son of a fame-hungry media mogul. He was just… a guy, lost in the music, lost in the moment, lost in himself.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t give a fuck.

…

When he woke up, his mouth tasted like regret, and his throat was dry as sandpaper. Stan groaned, shifted slightly, and immediately felt the weight of multiple limbs tangled with his own.

His bleary eyes cracked open and squinted against the hazy morning light filtering through his bedroom window. Blonde hair, brunette hair, maybe even blue? He wasn’t sure. There were at least three girls in his bed, all asleep, their breaths slow and even.

For a moment, he just lay there and stared at the ceiling, letting reality seep back into him. The nightclub. The drinks. The kisses. The blowjobs. The laughter. The blurry chaos.

And now, this.

He exhaled heavily, rubbing his face. His temples throbbed as he grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with what might as well have been a death sentence.

57 missed calls. 32 voicemails. 112 unread messages.

All from the same name: Dad.

"Shit."

He checked the time—8:13 AM.

Filming had started over two hours ago.

"Shit."

He let the phone drop onto his chest, then stared blankly at the ceiling for a few more seconds, before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His head swam. The room tilted. He held his forehead in one hand, willing himself not to throw up. A soft groan came from behind him. One of the girls stirred. He ignored it as he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the kitchen. He needed a cure. Fast.

Not thinking twice, Stan cracked a raw egg into a glass. The yolk plopped in with an unsettling squelch. He reached for the whiskey bottle still sitting on the counter from last night (classy, really), poured a generous amount over the egg, and swirled it together.

He stared at it, then downed it in one gulp. His stomach lurched, threatening to reject it. He swallowed down the disgusting taste of bile and gripped the edge of the counter. Not today. Taking a deep breath, he walked back toward the bedroom, where the girls were still curled up in his sheets, unaware that they had just woken up in the middle of a personal disaster zone.

After a moment, he leaned against the doorway and called out, "Hey, uh… ladies? Rise and shine."

One of them groaned and buried her face in the pillow. Another barely moved.

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and turned toward the hallway.

At that moment, his housekeeper, Maria, entered, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the scene. She’d worked for the Marshs for years, long before they became reality TV royalty, and had long since stopped being fazed by Stan’s antics.

"Señor Stanley," she said in a tone that carried the weight of a thousand lectures.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Stan sighed. He nodded toward his bedroom. "Wake them up and get them out of here, will you?"

"Again?"

"Again."

She muttered something under her breath in Spanish but walked off to do as he asked. Stan didn’t need to hear the words to know she was calling him an idiot. He agreed. He sighed again and headed toward the door. If he stayed here any longer, he’d just give himself more reasons to hate his life.

The moment he stepped out of his apartment complex, he regretted every decision he had ever made.

The flashing lights hit him like a tidal wave. Paparazzi, dozens of them, swarmed the sidewalk, shouting his name. Their cameras clicked relentlessly.

"STAN! Over here!"

"Stan, is it true you're starring in your own spinoff?"

"Stan! Who were those women you left the club with last night?"

"Stan, do you have a drinking problem?"

He winced and squinted against the onslaught. His head pounded even harder. This was exactly what Kenny had warned him about. Ignoring the sea of questions, he shoved past the crowd, his hoodie pulled low over his face. His driver, Max, was already waiting with the car door open. Stan all but threw himself into the backseat. The door slammed shut and muffled the chaos outside.

Max glanced at him through the rearview mirror with a raised brow. "Rough night?"

Stan groaned, leaning his head back. "Just drive, man. Set. Now."

The second he stepped onto the set, it was like walking into a courtroom where he was the defendant and the entire Marsh family was the jury. His dad, mastermind of America’s favorite reality show and Stan’s personal tormentor, stormed toward him, face red with anger.

"You’ve got some nerve, Stan!" Randy snapped, stopping inches from his face. "Showing up late, drunk, after parading around town like some washed up celebrity cliché!"

Already tired of this, Stan pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "Dad, please. Not so loud. My head’s already trying to kill me."

"Maybe if you acted like a professional, you wouldn’t have this problem!" Randy barked.

Stan scoffed. "Professional? We’re not filming a damn Oscar-winning movie, dad. It’s just another season of us pretending to be a happy family while you cash in on our misery."

Randy’s expression darkened. "You think this is a joke? Do you have any idea how much work goes into keeping this show afloat? Into keeping this family together?"

At that, Stan’s mom sighed heavily from the sidelines. "Oh, Randy, just let it go. It’s not like this is the first time."

She wasn’t wrong.

Sharon looked at Stan and shook her head in disappointment, but it wasn’t real disappointment. It was the kind of look she gave when she had to play her role. In reality, Stan knew she was just as exhausted with all of this as he was.

Still, she said, "You could at least try to show up in one piece, sweetheart."

Stan bit back a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I’ll pencil that in right after my next blackout bender."

At that moment, Kenny, his one ally in this circus, walked past him with a clipboard. Even he shot Stan a disapproving look.

"Really, dude?" Kenny muttered under his breath. "This was dumb. Even for you. I tried to warn you."

And then came Shelley, possibly the only person in the family who truly understood him. She walked by, arms crossed, and simply muttered, "If you’re gonna show up drunk, at least be more subtle about it next time, turd."

Stan exhaled through his nose. Fantastic. Even his own sister was giving him pointers on how to be a functional mess.

"Alright, enough of this," Randy snapped and clapped his hands. "Stan, get cleaned up, get in wardrobe, and get your act together. We’re filming whether you like it or not."

Stan sighed. He was too hungover to argue, too exhausted to care. He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, "Let’s just get this over with."

And with that, the cameras rolled.

…

Filming breaks were rare. Actual privacy even rarer. Stan took the chance the moment it presented itself. He slipped away from the set, weaved through the maze of production crew and fake farm aesthetics, and made his way to his mom’s office. It was the one place in this godforsaken circus that still felt somewhat real.

Sharon Marsh’s office wasn’t as lavish as you’d expect from the matriarch of a reality TV empire. No massive chandelier, no golden-framed pictures of the family smiling on cue. Just a cluttered desk, a half-empty coffee cup, and stacks of paperwork she probably never got around to reading.

He shut the door behind him when he entered and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Finally. A moment away from the cameras, the production crew, and, most importantly, his father. She already sat at her desk, skimming through a stack of documents that were probably yet another business proposal tied to the show. Unlike Randy, who thrived in the limelight, Sharon had always seemed more exhausted by it than anything else.

She glanced up the moment she heard her son. Her eyes flicked over him and took in his disheveled appearance, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight sway in his stance. With a sigh, she set down her papers.

"How bad is it this time?"

Stan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Bad."

Sharon gestured toward the chair across from her desk. "Sit."

He obeyed and slumped down, then rubbed his throbbing temples. His hangover was still gnawing at him, but that wasn’t the worst part of his morning. No, the worst part was realizing that he had to keep doing this. That tomorrow would be the same. That he was stuck in this never ending cycle of cameras, scripted drama, and fake smiles.

"Mom, I can’t do this anymore," he muttered.

She didn’t react right away. Instead, she folded her hands on the desk and looked at him carefully, like she had expected this conversation to happen eventually.

"You want to quit the show," she said.

"Yes," Stan said without hesitation.

Sharon nodded slowly. "Okay. And after that?"

"What do you mean, after that?"

"I mean, what’s next for you, Stan? What do you plan to do after walking away from all of this?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I don’t know. Something. Anything that doesn’t involve me being a walking reality show."

"You know, five years ago, you tried that."

Stan looked down. He knew where this was going.

"You got into college," his mom continued. "And within a semester, you flunked out. You came back home, completely lost, because you couldn’t handle it."

"I was overwhelmed."

"I know," Sharon said. "But you need to understand why that happened. You were thrown into a world you weren’t prepared for. Years of private tutors and homeschooling, all because of this show, never gave you the chance to figure out how to function in the real world. And now, you want to leave it behind, but you still don’t have a plan."

Stan slouched in his chair. He hated that she was right. "You don’t think I can do it?" he muttered.

"I didn’t say that. I’m saying you need to figure out what you want before making a decision you might regret."

And he let that sink in. He knew his mom wasn’t like Randy, she wasn’t trying to trap him in this life. If anything, she was the only one who actually gave a shit about how he felt. That was why he had to ask.

"Why don’t you just leave him?"

Sharon’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in her eyes, something tired.

However, he pushed on. "You and dad haven’t been happy in years. You’re just as miserable as the rest of us, maybe even more. So why not just—"

"It’s not that simple, Stan," she cut in, voice softer than before.

Stan frowned. "It should be."

To his surprise, Sharon just sighed and reached for the coffee cup sitting on her desk. "Believe me, I’ve thought about it," she admitted. "But walking away from a marriage, especially one that’s so public, isn’t like quitting a job. There are legal complications, financial ties, the media frenzy that would follow…" She rubbed her temple. "I just don’t have the energy for that war right now."

Honestly, he hated that, too.

"I appreciate you worrying about me, sweetheart," his mom said gently. "But right now, you need to focus on your own escape plan, not mine."

Stan looked away again. He had nothing to say to that. A moment passed before Sharon spoke again.

"And in the meantime," she added sternly, "watch what you’re doing. If you want out, don’t give your father more reasons to drag you back in."

"What do you mean?"

At that, Sharon gave him a knowing look. "You’re still not completely sober, are you?"

Stan stiffened slightly. He knew better than to lie to her. "… Not 100%, no."

"Then watch yourself. Last night wasn’t the first time you’ve pulled a stunt like this. You cannot keep getting drunk in public. You of all people should know how fast the media can twist things."

"Mom—"

"Don’t ‘Mom’ me," she interrupted. "You might not care about the cameras, but your father does. And if you keep screwing up like this, he’s just going to find more ways to exploit it. You want out of this life? Then start acting like someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

Stan rubbed his face, feeling like a kid getting scolded. He wasn’t used to his mom talking to him like this. Usually, she was the chill one. The calm one. The one person in this family who actually listened to him. But she wasn’t wrong.

"I hear you," he muttered.

"Good." Sharon took a sip of her coffee. "Now go splash some water on your face before your father finds another reason to yell at you."

Stan sighed and got up. Before he left, he hesitated at the door. "Thanks," he muttered without turning around.

His mom just smiled tiredly. "Go figure yourself out, sweetie. Before someone else does it for you."

…

Kyle Broflovski was having a really, really crappy day.

Not just in the Oh, my coffee order was wrong and my boss yelled at me way, but in the Why did I even go to college for this? way.

Tired already, he slumped in his chair and stared at his computer screen in the cramped, dingy office of Mile High Scoop, the tabloid firm that had been gracious enough to hire him. His task for the day was finding gossip on celebrities. That was it. That was his job.

He decided that he hated his job. It wasn’t the kind of hate that built over time, it was the immediate, gut-wrenching realization that he’d made a mistake by taking it. He had dreamed of becoming an investigative journalist, of breaking important stories that changed lives. Instead, he was stuck as a paid intern, fetching coffee and chasing down celebrities for gossip that made the world dumber. He wanted to expose corruption, not write about which B-list actor cheated on their influencer girlfriend, for crying out loud. He wanted to hold the powerful accountable, not stalk movie stars as they drunkenly stumbled out of bars. But none of that mattered, because fresh out of college, this was the only journalism job he could get.

And now, he was lying to his parents about it.

He rubbed his temples, willing his headache away. It had been another long day of doing absolutely nothing meaningful. A real journalist was supposed to be out there telling the world the truth, exposing secrets that mattered. Instead, Kyle had spent his morning camped outside a gym and waited for some ex boyband member to exit shirtless so the paparazzi could get a good shot for the next day’s gossip column. He let out a long, exhausted sigh. If his dad ever found out about this…

Kyle winced at the thought. Gerald Broflovski was a well-respected lawyer. A man who had built his career from the ground up and expected his sons to follow in his footsteps. He had spent years encouraging Kyle to study law, to use his sharp mind for something worthwhile.

... And Kyle had hated every second of it.

Really, he had tried sitting through his dad’s old case files, pretending to be interested in contract law and court rulings, but all he ever felt was a dull, crushing boredom. He had never been able to picture himself as a lawyer, not even once. So, against Gerald's wishes, Kyle had majored in journalism – at Columbia. His dad hadn’t been happy about it, but at least Kyle had promised that he would make something of himself. That he would land a great job. That he’d prove he didn’t need his dad’s connections to succeed.

And now, here he was, a glorified gossip chaser. Kyle rubbed his hands over his face. Goddammit.

At that moment, his phone buzzed. A text from his mom. Kyle stared at the message for a moment and felt that ugly twist of his stomach. It felt horrible, but he had to keep up the lie.

Mom

Today, 1:12 PM

Friend

Hey, Bubbeh! How’s the job? Are they still treating you well? Your dad says he’s so proud of you! ❤️

Friend

It’s great, mom! Learning a lot!

Read 1:13 PM

He hit send before he could think too much about it. He hated lying to his mom, but it was easier than admitting the truth. That if he had gone to law school instead, his dad would have lined up a cushy job for him by now. That if he had followed the plan, he wouldn’t be scraping by at a job he despised, working under an editor who didn’t care about real news.

Instead, he was stuck here, in an office that smelled like stale coffee, surrounded by coworkers who lived for meaningless gossip.

“Broflovski!”

Kyle flinched when his editor’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?” he called back. He already dreaded whatever was coming.

The editor, Francis Mendez, a balding man with a permanent scowl, popped his head out of his office. “Got a new assignment for you.”

Kyle resisted the urge to groan.

“Stan Marsh,” Francis just said.

Kyle blinked. “The reality show guy?”

“The reality show guy,” Francis confirmed and tossed a file onto Kyle’s desk. “Rich, spoiled, an absolute train wreck. Perfect headline material. Apparently, he got wasted last night and showed up to set still drunk.”

Kyle stared at the folder. “So what do you need me to do?”

Francis grinned. “Follow him. See what else he screws up. Get me something juicy.”

When he heard that, Kyle felt something deep in his soul break. This was not the kind of journalism he had wanted. But what choice did he have? Still, Kyle hated reality TV. It wasn’t just a mild dislike, it was an actual, visceral hatred. It was everything wrong with modern entertainment—shallow, scripted bullcrap designed to rot people’s brains. He had tried to explain this to his mom, who, despite being an intelligent woman, still tuned in to the occasional reality show.

Every time he caught her watching, he’d groan, roll his eyes, and say something like: "Mom, how can you stand this garbage?"

And every time, Sheila would just shrug and say: "It’s entertaining, Kyle. Not everything has to be so serious."

Yes, Mom, it does.

Which was why Kyle was currently dying inside when he skimmed through the file on Stan Marsh, one of the stars of Making It with the Marshs, and apparently, his new assignment. The first thing he learned was that Stan Marsh was a walking disaster.

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose when he read the first page:

Subject: Stanley "Stan" Marsh, 23

• Reportedly arrived on set drunk and high yesterday morning
• Has a history of public intoxication and bar fights
• Rumored to be on bad terms with his father, Randy Marsh (family patriarch and executive producer of Making It with the Marshs)
• Spends more time in Denver than at the "family farm" where the show films
• Paparazzi caught him hooking up with multiple women at a nightclub just last night

Kyle closed his eyes for a second. Jesus fucking Christ. This guy was ridiculously privileged. Stan Marsh had practically been born into wealth, handed fame on a silver platter, and yet he spent his days getting wasted, fucking around, and making a fool of himself. Meanwhile, actual hardworking people were busting their asses just to make rent. Kyle bristled at the thought. Stan Marsh had never had to worry about money, job security, or making something of himself. He wasn’t an overworked intern at a garbage tabloid, wasn’t lying to his parents about his career, wasn’t struggling to figure out his future.

No, Stan Marsh’s biggest problem was that he was too rich and famous and just so, so sad about it.

"Woe is me," Kyle thought mockingly. "Daddy wants me to be a reality star, and I don’t like it, so I get drunk in public and embarrass myself constantly."

Kyle turned the page and scanned more notes on the Marsh family dynamic.

• Sharon Marsh (Matriarch, 53): Seems to dislike the reality show lifestyle, but still goes to her country club every week to mingle with rich socialites
• Shelley Marsh (Older Sister, 26): The family grump who puts in zero effort but is still loved by fans for her deadpan humor
• Randy Marsh (Patriarch, late 50s): Obsessed with fame, rumored to be pushing for a Stan-centric spin-off show

After he'd read everything, Kyle rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.

Even Sharon, the one person who seemed to have some self-awareness, still lived the cushy life of a wealthy housewife. And Shelley didn’t even try to be liked, yet the dumb fans adored her. And then there was Stan. The golden boy turned trainwreck. Kyle felt a deep, soul-crushing secondhand embarrassment just reading about him. He already hated this task.

Because the worst part? He was going to have to stalk this dumbass.

Chapter Text

Stan Marsh lay sprawled on his couch, one arm thrown over his face, the other holding his phone as he tortured himself. He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. And yet, here he was, stalking Wendy’s Instagram.

Wendy Testaburger—actress, model, absolute goddess— his ex-girlfriend, and the only girl he’d ever thought he might actually love.

The problem was that she had moved on.

Stan scrolled through her latest posts and his jaw tightened with every single picture.

Wendy at a film premiere, looking stunning as always. 
Wendy at some beachside resort, laughing.
Wendy with Gregory of Yardale.

Gregory. Fucking. Yardale. The British snob Wendy was dating now.

Stan had met him once, at the godawful Met Gala his dad had forced him to attend last year. Even though Stan had already shown up hungover, he had gotten even more wasted once he saw them together. Wendy and Gregory had looked like a literal dream couple. Perfect. Elegant. Straight out of some Vogue photoshoot. Stan, on the other hand, had barely managed to button his shirt right. He hated Gregory, his stupid accent, his pretentious name. Who the fuck was actually called Gregory of Yardale? He sounded like a villain in a Jane Austen novel.

Gritting his teeth, Stan zoomed in on the latest picture. Wendy and Gregory were currently in Paris. Gregory had his arm around her waist, and she was smiling at him like he was the only guy in the world.

He felt sick. "That used to be me," he thought bitterly.

Once upon a time, he had been the one she smiled at like that. Back when they were fifteen, on the set of that dumb soda commercial, before everything got complicated. Before the drinking. Before the drugs. Before Making It with the Marshs ruined his life.

Their relationship had been a rollercoaster. On and off for years, until Wendy had finally had enough of his bullshit. Now she was with Gregory. And then, only a couple of months into her relationship with Gregory, she did that single despicable thing Stan still could not get over. Just thinking about it made him cringe.

He groaned and tossed his phone onto his chest, staring at the ceiling. Despite all this, he wanted her back. Badly.

But even he knew he couldn’t do it right now. Not while his life was this much of a disaster. He needed to get away. Not forever, just for a little while. A break from Making It with the Marshs, from the cameras, from his dad breathing down his neck. Stan exhaled sharply and grabbed his phone again. He opened his messages and typed out a quick text to Kenny.

Kenny

Today, 5:34 PM

Friend

you free? come over. need to talk.

Friend

not about the show. about smth else

Read 5:34 PM

Kenny was one of the few people Stan could actually talk to. He arrived at Stan’s place twenty minutes later, a brown paper bag in one hand and a six-pack of soda in the other.

“You’re lucky I like you, Marsh,” he said as he dropped the bag onto the coffee table. “I had to go to two different places to find a decent low-carb burger.”

Stan snorted while he sat up, then grabbed the bag and pulled out his meal. “Thanks, mom.”

His buddy flopped onto the couch next to him and cracked open a strawberry soda. “Alright. You called me over, so what’s up? If it’s about your dad being an absolute nightmare, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“It’s more than just him. The whole show is suffocating me.” Stan swallowed a bite of his burger and sighed. 

“Not shocking, dude. You’ve been drunk or high for, like, every filming day lately.”

“Well,” Stan muttered, rubbing his face. “That’s kind of the point. It’s the only way I can stand it.”

Kenny exhaled sharply. “Look, man. I’ve been watching you self-destruct for years now, and it’s getting worse. You hate that show, I get it. But we’re not even halfway through filming season eleven. What are you gonna do?”

Stan was quiet for a moment, then finally said, “I want to get away.”

At that, his friend turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “And what, you think your dad’s just gonna let you?”

“No. Which is why I’m gonna have to do it without his permission.”

Kenny blinked. Then, slowly, he smirked. “Now that’s an idea. You’re a grown-ass man, Stan. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

Stan ran a hand through his hair. “I just… I need a break. A real one. Away from the cameras, away from the paparazzi, away from all of it.”

“I agree. But if you’re gonna do this, you need to do it right. If you go anywhere remotely well-known, you’ll get recognized immediately. Making It with the Marshs is a global hit. It’s been dubbed into different languages, for fuck’s sake. You need to go to, like, bumfuck nowhere.”

Stan chewed his lip, thinking. Then, an idea struck him. “France.”

Kenny gave him a look. “France? Why France?”

Of course, Stan wasn’t about to tell him that Wendy was in Paris. That his real reason for wanting this retreat was to become a better man for her.

Instead, he shrugged. “It’s far. My dad won’t be able to send people after me as easily. And if I pick a small enough town, nobody will recognize me.”

“Alright, buddy. I can work with that. But we gotta be smart about this. You can’t just book a flight under your real name. The second it gets flagged, your dad will have you dragged back to set.”

Stan groaned. “Yeah, I figured.”

Kenny cracked his knuckles. “No worries. I’ll buy the flight ticket under my name and get you a fake ID. If we plan this right, you can be out of here by the end of the week.”

Stan exhaled as relief washed over him. This was it. He was finally, finally getting out.

After Kenny had long gone home, Stan stood in front of the open suitcase on his bed and carefully selected the few things he needed. This wasn’t a vacation. It was an escape. He wasn’t going to overpack.

A couple pairs of jeans, two hoodies, some basic tees, a good coat (it was France, after all) and sunglasses big enough to cover most of his soul. No designer labels, no flashy watches, nothing that screamed “reality TV trust fund baby.” Just the bare minimum. Just Stan. He tossed his old phone on the nightstand, screen cracked and overflowing with missed calls and passive-aggressive texts from Randy. He wouldn’t be needing that anymore. Instead, he reached for the new phone Kenny had gotten him, registered under a fake name, burner SIM, clean slate. No tracking, no tabloids, no Marsh Media Group spyware disguised as "family calendar apps."

Next, he reached into the safe tucked behind a fake panel in his closet, installed by Kenny last year during one of Stan’s more paranoid spirals. From it, he pulled the card from his other bank account. The hidden one. The one his dad didn’t know about, where Stan had been squirreling away tiny amounts of money-$300 here, $500 there- slow enough to avoid raising red flags in the spreadsheet Randy Marsh reviewed every month like a hawk.

It wasn’t much. Not Marsh money. Not “let’s buy a vineyard and crash a yacht” money. But it was his money. That alone made it gold.

He paused and turned toward the mirror.

There he was. The infamous Stan Marsh. Dark blue eyes. Black hair so perfectly tousled it had its own fanbase. Skin that hadn’t seen an unfiltered Instagram photo since he was fourteen. His torso was sculpted, the result of endless hours with overpriced trainers and a personal chef who'd side-eye him for even thinking about bread. Six-pack? Check. Biceps? Check. Soul-crushing sadness behind the abs? Double check. He remembered the time he was celebrating his fourteenth birthday and cried because he wanted a donut. Just one. And his dad told him sugar makes your face puffy on camera. “You want to be marketable or forgettable?” Instead, his nutritionist had gotten him fucking cucumber slices.

He flexed, then rolled his eyes. The body was perfect. Manufactured, packaged, and sold. Against his will, Stan had modeled for Calvin Klein once—underwear ad, national campaign, Times Square billboard. He’d been high as a kite the whole time. Not for fun, but because he never would have gotten through that day sober. The room was full of sharks with cheekbones and insults disguised as “creative direction.” The stylist had told him his “aura was too sad” and the photographer kept saying “less thoughts, more thirst.” He hadn’t touched the ad photos since.

He reached for his electric razor, intending only to trim his scruff. Something manageable, something that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows if he showed up in public. But then… he stopped in his tracks. Watched himself. Studied the face that had smiled through too many fake scenes and promo shots and red carpets. And suddenly, he snapped it on and buzzed his hair clean off.

Strands of jet-black dropped into the sink like pieces of a life he was done performing. The scruff went next. His jawline now looked sharper, more exposed, like a man who’d just broken out of a prison disguised as a luxury estate. He wasn’t completely bald, just a tight buzzcut. Bare. Honest. Defiant.

He stared into the mirror again.

New hair. New phone. New name (sort of). Same emotional baggage, but lighter now, maybe.

His dad was going to go ballistic when he found out. Randy Marsh loved control. He loved branding. And Stan’s hair? That had been a brand. A look. Something to slap on magazine covers and shampoo ads. Oh well, not anymore.

Stan smirked at his reflection, the first real smirk he’d managed in weeks. He could already hear Randy’s voice screaming about the “image” and the “optics” and how the “buzzcut makes you look like an army dropout, not a Marsh.” Stan didn’t fucking care. This was a new beginning. And Randy Marsh couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

…

Kyle had officially hit rock bottom. There he was, hunched over a sticky secondhand couch in his tiny Denver apartment, clutching a pen in one hand and a lukewarm energy drink in the other, ten seasons deep into the cultural cesspool that was Making It With the Marshs.

“God help me,” he muttered for the fiftieth time that day, as the intro blared for yet another episode. Country music. Barn drone shots. A slow-motion pan of a laughing Randy Marsh riding a tractor in Ralph Lauren. Cue the sparkly text overlay: Making It With the Marshs — Season 5, Episode 12: “Hay Bales & Heartbreaks.”

He’d seen things. Too many things.

Randy Marsh was a walking midlife crisis in designer flannel. The manchild had zero business running a family, let alone producing a show. Kyle had counted at least twelve full tantrums from Randy across the seasons, including one where he refused to film because his “cowboy hat didn’t vibe with the lighting.” Also, the control-freak energy was off the charts. The guy could probably write a PhD thesis on gaslighting.

Shelley Marsh, the oldest sibling and seemingly permanent grump of the family, had the personality of a storm cloud: sarcastic, cold, eye-rolls for days. But okay… she was hot. Kyle would never say that out loud (except maybe once when Bebe made him do a Smash or Pass drinking game). Still, the woman could wear a flannel like it was haute couture.

But Stan Marsh? Oh boy, Stan was a whole damn mystery.

Kyle had combed through hours of footage—interviews, behind-the-scenes bits, b-rolls of Stan failing at farming and then flashing a model smile—and he still couldn’t pin the guy down. One second Stan was deadpan and sullen, the next he was sarcastic and weirdly charming. He’d be making jokes with the crew, then storm off set the next day for no reason. It was exhausting. Infuriating.

And yeah, okay, he was hot. Unreasonably, unfairly hot. Dark hair, always just the right amount of tousled. Those blue eyes? Arctic. Soul piercing. Rude, honestly. He had the kind of body you only get from personal trainers and being genetically blessed by gods who apparently had reality TV subscriptions. Stan was always shirtless when unnecessary. Feeding chickens? Shirtless. Tossing hay? Shirtless. Talking about existential dread in the confessional booth? Somehow shirtless again.

“I hate that I’m starting to understand his smirk moods,” Kyle groaned.

“It’s because you have a crush,” Bebe said from the kitchen, and emerged with a bowl of ramen and her usual air of smug chaos.

“Excuse me, no.”

“Sure,” she said with a wink, then flopped down beside him. “You only wrote 'brooding hot idiot' in your notes like twelve times.”

Kyle huffed and chucked a popcorn kernel at her.

Bebe was the only thing keeping him sane. She’d been his best friend since sophomore year of college. Once upon a time, they’d tried dating, until they both realized they were romantically incompatible. Kyle discovered men were more his thing; Bebe realized she vibed way more with women. They broke up, high-fived, and never looked back. Now she was an aspiring actress working barista shifts and occasionally popping into his miserable intern life to make it less, well, miserable.

“So how’s the search going?” Bebe asked between slurps of ramen.

“I hate everything. This family is like the Kardashians if they had to milk cows and emotionally neglect each other on camera. Randy is a menace, Sharon’s the only sane one, Shelley’s allergic to joy, and Stan… Stan is like... UGH.”

“'Ugh'?” she smirked.

Kyle sighed and flopped back on the couch. The glow of the paused episode highlighted the outline of Stan’s perfect jawline in a confessional clip. “He’s hot and sad. It’s like the worst kind of trap.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Kyle sat up, thumbing through his scribbled notes and screenshots. “I need to find him. The rumor is he ran off. But if I want to do a real piece, expose what this fake-ass show does to people, I need to track him down. I need to get inside the tragedy that is Stan Marsh.”

“Or inside Stan Marsh,” Bebe teased.

“Shut. Up.”

Bebe only grinned wider and reached for the remote. “Don’t forget, you’ve still got a reunion episode to get through. And the spinoff teaser.”

Kyle groaned into his throw pillow.

So this was hell journalism.

Hours later, he lay on the floor, eyes bloodshot, brain somewhere between melted and aggressively offline. The Marsh family’s greatest hits (screaming matches, goat stampedes, Randy’s fourth midlife crisis) had completely, totally scrambled his sense of reality. He stared blankly at his laptop screen and blinked at the paused frame of Stan Marsh arm-wrestling a guy in a kilt for a segment called “Scottish Shenanigans.” It felt like his soul was trying to escape his body again.

“I don’t even know where to start.” He tiredly rubbed his face with both hands.

Bebe, still sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolled through her phone with the ease of someone not haunted by reality TV trauma. “Why not just ask the internet?” she said with a shrug.

Kyle rolled onto his side to glare at her. “I’m a journalist, not some TikTok kid trying to manifest an iced coffee sponsorship.”

“You’re also an underpaid intern who’s losing his mind over a hot mess in designer boots. Maybe just... try something chaotic for once?”

He opened his mouth to retort. Closed it. Then sighed. “…It's worth a try, I guess. But if I go viral for being a pathetic loser, I’m blaming you in the obituary.”

“Deal.” She already handed him his phone like a loaded weapon.

So, in a move that screamed desperation, Kyle re-downloaded Instagram, and cringed at his last post from six months ago: a filtered latte and a caption that read “Caffeine is my coping mechanism.” He looked like a wannabe Brooklyn poet. Disgusting.

He hit record and leaned into the chaotic energy.

“Hi,” he said, voice flat, sleep-deprived eyes rimmed with blue light exhaustion. “I’m Kyle. I’m not a fan of reality TV, but I need to find Stan Marsh. Yes, that Stan Marsh from Making It With the Marshs. Long story short: it’s for work. If you know anything, help me out. If you don’t, please send caffeine and emotional support memes.”

He added some dramatic music, a cryptic caption—“A manhunt, but make it viral. #FindStanMarsh”—and hit “post” before he could think better of it.

Then he went to bed with the smug confidence of someone who knew no one was going to watch it anyway.

When he woke up the next morning, it was to the sound of his phone vibrating itself to death on the nightstand.

“Huh…?”

He squinted at the screen. 216 unread dms. 1,187 new followers. His reel had racked up 98,000 views and counting.

“What the actual fuck?”

Bebe burst into the room holding two cups of coffee like a caffeinated prophet. “I might’ve shared your reel with a few people last night,” she said, grinning like a cat who just released chaos into the world.

Kyle bolted upright. His blanket tangled around his legs like a villain’s trap. “What do you mean a few people?”

“I texted it to Cam, who sent it to Taylor, who posted it on TikTok, and then, well…” she flipped her phone around. A video showed someone remixing Kyle’s reel with dramatic edits and CSI-style zooms on blurry screenshots of Stan Marsh in dive bars and beach parties.

The hashtags were wild:

#WhereInTheWorldIsStanMarsh

#RealityShowRunaway

#FindStanMarshChallenge

#KyleLooksTiredSendHelp

“I’m…” Kyle blinked. “Why are there memes of me? This one just says ‘Sad Twink vs. Millionaire Cowboy.’”

Bebe took a proud sip of coffee. “The internet ships it now. Sorry.”

Kyle ignored her and opened his dms. Dozens of messages from strangers poured in, some unhinged (“I saw Stan Marsh in a wet dream and he said to look in Wyoming”), some disturbingly specific (“He was at a vegan diner in Milwaukee two days ago, no cap”), and others just helpful enough to be taken seriously.

There was even a grainy photo from what looked like Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris. A buzz-cut guy with a strong jawline and unmistakable arms under a hoodie.

“Oh, fuck me,” Kyle whispered.

Bebe leaned over his shoulder. “Is that…?”

Kyle nodded slowly, heart skipping. “That’s definitely Stan Marsh.”

His post had gone viral. The internet had risen in all its chaotic glory. And for better or worse, the hunt for Stan Marsh had officially begun.

…

Somehow, against all odds and the obsessive grip of the American paparazzi-industrial complex, Stan had made it to Paris undetected. One transatlantic flight, a wig he stole from the set of a Halloween episode two years ago, sunglasses so large they could double as satellite dishes, and a fake Canadian passport under the name Nico Masson (thank you, Kenny) and boom. He was strolling out of Charles de Gaulle like just another privileged twenty-something with vague dreams and daddy issues.

Paris hit him like a dream and a headache all at once, loud, smelly, beautiful. The kind of place that made you feel like a main character and an imposter at the same time. His original plan had been modest: disappear into some quiet French village, spend his days sleeping, watching Netflix, and not being yelled at by his father for having “bad posture on camera.” Maybe learn to bake a baguette. But standing there with a duffel bag, a suitcase, and no press in sight, Stan felt lighter than he had in years, despite his jetlag.

So he thought, Fuck it. Europe tour.

Maybe he’d hit Italy, eat actual pasta without calorie counting. Maybe Amsterdam, where nobody cared who he was. Hell, maybe he’d even go to Norway and disappear into a fjord. For the first time in his life, his schedule wasn’t planned by someone else. No mic packs, no fake storylines, no family breakfasts that were actually just ad placements for low-carb cereal brands. He checked into a modest boutique hotel in Montmartre under his fake name and dropped his bag onto the floor like it was radioactive. Then, Stan did what any newly liberated man would do: he took a gloriously long shower, put on a hoodie that didn’t scream celebrity in disguise, and went out for a fatty crêpe that tasted like freedom.

Later that evening, comfortably full of grease, Nutella and casual anonymity, Stan was scrolling through his burner Instagram account, the one he called ClarkKent11 and he’d created to stalk Wendy without liking anything by accident, when he saw it.

A reel.

His name.

#FindStanMarsh trending.

He blinked as his thumb hovered over the screen. It was a video of a guy, young, serious-looking, exhausted in a way only capitalism and unpaid internships could cause. He was talking to the camera, asking the internet to help find him.

Stan stared. Then squinted. “Oh, fuck no.”

He clicked the profile: @KyleBroflovskiwrites.

Who the hell was this guy? The username sounded like a struggling indie novelist or one of those weird guys who writes manifestos in coffee shops. Stan skimmed the caption. For work.

“Of course,” he muttered as he dropped his head back against the hotel pillow.

A tabloid. It had to be. Or maybe some social media stunt. Stan had done enough PR damage over the years that some junior reporter probably made him their entire career thesis. Great. Perfect. Just what he needed. He kept scrolling. People were posting blurry pictures, grainy airport shots, including one from earlier that day. Someone had tagged the location just right, and even though Stan had his hoodie up and was facing away, it was unmistakably him. One user had zoomed in and added a caption: That back belongs to a man who’s seen things.

Stan groaned and covered his face with a pillow. He should’ve known it wouldn’t last. Of course the internet couldn’t just let him go. The second he had finally taken a breath, the digital bloodhounds were on his trail. And now, thanks to this… Kyle guy, the hunt had officially gone viral. He sat up and tossed the pillow aside. If this douchebag thought he could drag him back home for another season of “smile pretty and be emotionally dead,” he had another thing coming.

Still, he couldn’t help clicking the reel again. That voice… it was kind of nice. A little dry and sarcastic. And his eyes were kind of intense. Stan hated that the dude looked hot in that completely disheveled “I’m running on iced coffee and pure spite” way.

Stan shook his head. Nope. Not the point.

So he shoved the phone under a pillow like it might explode. Then he lay back and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the buzzing in his chest that definitely wasn’t from caffeine. His trip across Europe just got a lot more complicated.

Chapter Text

Stan knew he shouldn’t be scrolling, but self-control had never exactly been his strong suit. Not when it came to alcohol, not when it came to paparazzi, and definitely not when it came to Wendy.

He told himself just one more comment as he sat curled up in the corner of the king-sized bed, hoodie up, fingers twitching. The #FindStanMarsh reel had racked up tens of thousands of likes overnight. People were tagging their friends. Speculating. Debating if he’d joined a cult. A few people even suggested he’d gone method for some secret film role. (”Watch him come back bald and Oscar-ready,” one comment read. Stan rolled his eyes. He was buzzed, not bald. And no, he wasn’t going method. He was going mentally exhausted. Big difference.)

Then he saw it. A blue checkmark.

@Wendytestaburgerofficial.

Stan’s stomach did an Olympic-level backflip as he tapped the notification.

Her comment sat innocently beneath a thousand memes and increasingly unhinged fan theories.

Would love to know where Stan is too🙂 Let me know the moment you find him @Kylebroflovskiwrites

The smiley face was the worst part. It was polite. Weaponized indifference.

Stan blinked at the screen, like it would change. It didn’t. “Seriously?” he muttered to himself.

She was supposed to be in love with Gregory of Yardale, Lord of Beige Sweaters and Pretentious Opinions. Wendy had posted enough curated couple photos to make their relationship look like an overpriced perfume ad. The two of them clinking wine glasses on a gondola in Vienna. Wendy in his blazer. Gregory holding her dog like it was a Fabergé egg.

And yet… that comment. What the hell was she playing at?

Was she worried about me? Was she trying to be funny? Was she just bored? Was it a trap? Stan couldn’t tell. All he knew was that her words, itty bitty and vague as they were, had burrowed right under his skin. He hated that his chest felt warm and pathetic. He hated how just seeing her name could send him into this spiral. Wendy had broken his heart, not the other way around. She was the one who said she couldn’t keep dating someone who treated real life like an afterparty. That she couldn’t keep waiting for him to choose her over the chaos.

But Stan had chosen her. At least, he tried. Between the cameras and his dad and the staged fights and rehab and Kenny hauling him out of nightclubs like a human mop, she just… got tired.

He sighed and tossed the phone onto the comforter, where it vibrated with a new flood of likes and comments. That was it. He wasn’t leaving this hotel room. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not for the rest of the week.

The thing was, people were starting to recognize him again. The concierge had asked too many questions when he checked in. A woman at a café had given him a double take. Even in Paris, even with the new haircut and fake name, there was no escaping Making it with the Marshs. The show had been dubbed into at least a dozen languages: Spanish, French, Korean, Swahili, even Turkish, for some reason. There was no corner of the Earth untouched by his dad’s empire of scripted dysfunction.

Speaking of which…

Stan imagined Randy Marsh storming through the family’s farm in South Park, screaming into his Bluetooth headset, absolutely losing his shit over Stan’s disappearance. Where’s Stan?! Get security on this. Call in favors. I want his location on my desk an hour ago!

He smiled, just a little. Okay, yeah, that part? That felt good. Let the man stew. Let the show grind to a halt without its golden boy.

But even when he leaned back against the pillows, wrapped in self-imposed exile, Stan felt the tension crawl up his spine again. The feeling he knew too well—the freedom and guilt, of running away but still being watched.

Maybe Kenny was right. Maybe this trip had to be rural. Like, goat-herder levels of rural. If Paris already recognized him, then he’d need to go full cryptid if he wanted to stay off the grid.

But for now, he was staying put. One week. No press. No streets. No selfies. And definitely no more Wendy-stalking. At least… not tonight.

…

Stan had officially become the world's most glamorous hermit. Nine days holed up in his Paris hotel room, subsisting off overpriced, soggy fries and tepid mushroom risotto from room service that somehow tasted like cardboard dipped in regret. The minibar had long been raided for its sad little bottles of tonic water and its single sleeve of cookies, which he'd devoured at 3 am on Day Four like a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

The Netflix autoplay feature was his closest relationship now. He’d binged everything from gritty Scandinavian murder shows to that one cooking competition where people sobbed over underbaked soufflés. His screen time report would’ve given his nutritionist a stroke. But Stan didn’t care. He didn’t want to care.

Every few hours, he’d doomscroll the internet under his Finstagram account, @ClarkKent11, a name he thought was hilarious in a sad, ironic way. Nobody suspected him. Why would they? Nobody ever thought the real Stan Marsh would be stuck in a hotel robe with buzzed hair and a slight case of bedhead psychosis, aggressively liking memes and lurking in the comment sections of posts about his own disappearance.

The tabloids were eating it up. Paparazzi had already mobbed the Marsh family’s ranch-style compound back in Colorado, perching in trees like camera-wielding vultures. At one point, TMZ reported a suspicious pizza delivery to the house and speculated if Stan was hiding in the guesthouse. (He wasn’t. He hated that stupid guesthouse.)

Then came The Statement™. He watched the video, half-sprawled on the bed, fingers greasy from a bag of hotel-brand popcorn.

The Marshs, lined up like grim-faced dolls in front of an aggressively white wall in Randy’s office.

Randy, as always, was the center of gravity. “Our son, Stan, is taking some much-needed time for himself. We ask the public for privacy and understanding during this period.” He said it with just enough polished sincerity to sell the lie. Years of camera training had taught him how to perform fatherhood like it was a Broadway show.

Sharon, beside him, looked like she’d rather be doing literally anything else, including, possibly, surgery without anesthesia.

As for Shelley? Perma-scowl. Iconic. Honestly, Stan respected the consistency.

He tossed the popcorn bag aside and rolled onto his stomach with a groan. “Time for himself,” he muttered. “Thanks, dad. Totally doesn’t sound like I’m in rehab or a cult now.”

Then, as he did most evenings, he found himself drifting toward his viral stalker.

Kyle Broflovski.

That cursed reel. The smug confidence. That ridiculous moment where he had the goddamn nerve to say: “If anyone out there knows where Stan Marsh is… I’m listening.”

Stan had watched the thing twenty times by now. Partly because it made his eye twitch. Partly because, well... Kyle wasn’t exactly ugly.

Red curls, sharp cheekbones, and those green eyes that were way too judgey for someone who still probably lived with IKEA furniture. Stan knew his type: smart, Columbia-educated, painfully earnest. The kind of guy who probably corrected people on grammar in text messages and drank overpriced cold brew on principle.

Summa cum laude, too. Because of fucking course.

He hated him. But also… didn’t. Ugh.

Because Kyle Broflovski wasn’t like the usual tabloid trash rats. There was no slimeball vibe. No lurking with a camera in a bush. Just… this hunger. This drive. This kid wanting to make a name for himself by tracking down a fallen star. Stan was just a stepping stone in his Pulitzer fantasy.

Still, something in Stan itched. Maybe boredom. Maybe masochism. Maybe curiosity laced with a mid-life crisis despite being twenty-three. He opened his Finsta account. His fingers hovered.

Then he typed.

No emoji. No punctuation. Just chaos and lowercase aggression.

He hit send - and immediately regretted it. But also… not really.

Because for the first time in over a week, his heart kicked in his chest like it remembered what it was for. He didn’t know what kind of response he’d get. But he was suddenly very interested in the guy who thought he could unravel Stan Marsh.

Let him try.

…

The moment Kyle stepped into the “budget-friendly” Parisian motel his boss had booked for him, he immediately knew he was in trouble.

The wallpaper peeled like it had been trying to escape the walls for years. There was a smell (something between mold, broken dreams, and feet) and Kyle was 90% sure the “mattress” on his top bunk had been used in a war. He shared the cramped room with five strangers: two backpackers who only spoke in cryptic Australian slang, a chain-smoking old man who watched telenovelas at full volume, and a hippie woman who claimed to be a medium and kept trying to read Kyle’s aura while chewing sunflower seeds.

He dropped his bag on the bed with the kind of thud that said existential crisis incoming. All of this. For a shot at proving himself. For a maybe-job. For an upgrade from glorified intern to actual journalist.

He sank onto the bed (it squeaked ominously) and opened his phone, fingers sticky from the cheapest falafel wrap he could find. The screen lit up, and at the top of his notifications: a dm.

Kyle stared at it. The account was locked, barely had any posts, and used a blurry profile picture of a rooftop at night. Classic anonymous internet troll. He was about to ignore it—because why invite a migraine—but something about the timing got to him. Like the universe was poking him on purpose.

So he typed.

When he read that, Kyle scoffed out loud and nearly woke up the aura-reader.

Kyle scowled as his thumbs flew across the screen.

Kyle blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

That felt loaded.

Kyle stared at the screen, weirdly unsettled. There was something about this “ClarkKent11” guy. Arrogant, sure. But not in the gross, slimy way. In the “I’ve seen more than I’m letting on” kind of way. He was probably just another fanboy with a God complex. Still, Kyle didn’t block him. Instead, he plugged in his dying phone, rolled onto the mattress that may or may not contain bedbugs, and stared at the ceiling.

His first lead in Paris wasn’t even a real location. Just a mystery internet troll with too much attitude. But it was something.And he’d take anything at this point.

…

Stan hadn’t seen the sun in over a week. It greeted him now like a slap in the face, bright and way too judgmental for a guy who hadn’t changed out of sweats in five days. He tugged his hoodie lower over his face and shoved his hands into the kangaroo pocket, head down, blending into the Parisian streets like any other emotionally exhausted tourist. Dark sunglasses covered his unmistakable blue eyes, and the cap he wore said “World’s Okayest Golfer,” which felt ironic considering Stan had never swung a club in his life.

Still, it worked. People barely glanced at him.

Paris didn’t care who you were unless you were carrying a baguette and wearing a scarf shaped like an identity crisis. Stan was fine with that.

He walked fast, adrenaline making him jittery. Maybe it was cabin fever. Or the fact that he was subsisting on hotel eggs and vending machine chips. Either way, his stomach was eating itself. And then—like a sign from the fast food gods—he spotted it.

Five Guys.

He stopped in his tracks and did a double take. He hadn’t even known they had those here. Weren’t the French supposed to be all about crêpes and croissants and things he couldn’t pronounce? But no. There it was. The red and white sign glowed like a beacon. Five minutes later, he was inside, tapping his foot impatiently as someone tried to figure out how to order in very enthusiastic but incorrect French. Stan mumbled his order in English to the unimpressed teenager behind the counter.

“Large fries. Cheeseburger. Oreo-bacon-chocolate milkshake.”

He paid with the credit card tied to his very secret, dad-doesn’t-know-about-it bank account. The same card Kenny had helped him set up when they were seventeen and Stan first realized how… un-free he was for someone supposedly living the dream.

Back outside, he made a beeline for his car, a tiny, used hatchback he’d bought from a guy named “Jacques” who’d met him in a parking garage and only took cash. The car was older than his career and smelled vaguely of garlic and regret, but it was his, and it worked.

Stan locked the doors, turned on the radio (French talk radio, no idea what they were saying), and dug into the bag.

The first bite of the burger hit like revelation.

Greasy. Salty. Cheesy. Everything his nutritionist would’ve fainted over. He closed his eyes and chewed, really chewed, not counting the bites, not weighing the calories, not worrying about whether this would bloat his abs before a shirtless photo shoot. He devoured the fries like they’d personally wronged him and slurped the milkshake like it was revenge.

For the first time in what felt like years, he felt like a regular guy. Not a brand. Not a heartthrob. Not “Stan Marsh, reality star, underwear model, public mess.” Just a guy in a tiny-ass car with greasy fingers and an Oreo mustache.

When the bag was empty and the guilt didn’t come, Stan leaned back and stared out the window at the cobbled streets of Paris. He could feel his dad’s rage from here, how he probably stomped around the Marsh farm, yelling at PAs and trying to control the PR disaster Stan had caused.

What a satisfying prospect.

Stan had already checked out of his hotel, left no forwarding address, and wiped his burner phone browser history. He threw the now-empty Five Guys bag into the backseat, where it joined a sad collection of receipts and plastic bottles, and started the engine.

Paris had served its purpose. It had fed him, hid him, given him a moment to breathe. Now it was time to move on. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere nobody would think to look. Maybe the Alps. Maybe a cheese-making village. Maybe some small town in bumfuck Germany with no wifi and no paparazzi. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove slowly through the winding streets, then blended into the blur of scooters and mopeds and tourists with fanny packs. His heart beat slower now. His stomach was full. And for once, his future felt like it might belong to him.

He didn’t know where he was going next. But it sure as hell wasn’t back.

Chapter Text

Kyle had just returned from a fruitless morning at the Eiffel Tower, where he’d interviewed no fewer than twelve tourists who looked at him like he’d grown a second head when he asked if they’d seen Stan Marsh, reality TV's golden boy turned recluse—when his phone buzzed.

@frenchbaguettebabe123 had sent him a dm.

Kyle blinked at his screen. Was this real? Was this finally a break? He messaged back quickly, trying to keep his cool:

The guy replied with a blurry photo of a very familiar jawline and what looked suspiciously like a Calvin Klein six-pack under a hoodie. The caption read:

“He had that ‘I’m famous and dead inside’ vibe. Pretty sure.”

Kyle was out the door in thirty seconds.

He grabbed an Uber, because navigating public transport in a language he didn’t speak was hell, and practically barked at the driver to get to the Champs-Élysées Five Guys yesterday. The ride was painfully slow thanks to traffic, but eventually he tumbled out onto the sidewalk like a caffeinated mess, scanning the fast-food joint like a bloodhound.

Inside, it was as generic as any American chain—linoleum floors, red and white checkered tiles, and a bored-looking teenage employee sweeping up near the soda machine. Kyle approached the kid, praying he spoke even a bit of English.

“Hey. Uh. Salut. Did… did a guy come in here yesterday? Tall, hoodie, shades, abs like a Greek statue, maybe ordered something weird?”

The teen looked up slowly, blinking like Kyle was a minor hallucination. Then he nodded.

“Oui,” he said in thickly accented English. “He order… cheeseburger, big fries, and milkshake… with bacon. It was… how you say… disgusting?”

“Oh my God,” Kyle breathed. “That’s him.”

“He sit in car,” the kid added. “Small car. Tiny. Grey Citroën. Very old.”

“Did you see where he went?”

The kid shrugged. “No. He drive away. Maybe… south?”

Of course it was south. Everyone trying to vanish went south.

Kyle practically sprinted back to the curb, yanked out his phone, and launched into Craigslist France. He needed a car. Any car. Something he could afford on his ramen-and-despair budget. To his complete and utter disbelief, a listing caught his eye: “Old car, cheap. No questions asked.”

He clicked.

Ten frantic messages, one rushed Metro ride, and a questionable cash transaction later, Kyle was standing in front of the very same dude who had apparently sold Stan freaking Marsh a car. He handed over the crumpled Euro bills and leaned in.

“I need more information. Please. License plate. Direction. Anything.”

Jacques looked him over, shrugged, then said, “Twenty more euros.”

Of course, Kyle handed it over without hesitation.

“License plate is 481-CLN-75. He go… south, I think. Say… mountain maybe?”

Kyle scribbled it all down and then, with all the optimism of a raccoon being launched into space, got into his “new” car.

It was a glorified tin can, to say the least. Also, stick shift. Of course. He stalled three times before he even pulled out of the driveway. His knees hit the dashboard every time he tried to shift. The seats smelled like cheap cigarettes and expired cheese. But he was moving. The chase had begun. Just as he was fumbling with the GPS, his phone buzzed again.

He scowled and typed back with one hand while the other tried not to stall the car again.

Kyle groaned but couldn’t help snorting. The sarcasm was almost charming. Almost.

Mildly annoyed, Kyle rolled his eyes. But still, he didn’t stop replying.

God help him, he was. Kyle adjusted the mirror, muttered a curse as the engine hiccupped again, and hit the road out of Paris. Wherever Stan Marsh had gone, Kyle Broflovski wasn’t far behind. Even if he had to learn stick shift and fight off snarky internet strangers along the way.

…

Stan had been on the road for what felt like a lifetime. The novelty of driving through the European countryside had long worn off, especially since he was hunched over the wheel of a car that felt like it had been designed for a Hobbit. His knees nearly grazed the steering wheel, and every time he hit a bump, the entire car wheezed like it was gasping for retirement. Gosh, he missed his Jeep. He missed legroom. He missed functioning cupholders.

While he veered off the main road and followed the winding curves of some nameless French highway, he muttered, “Why do Europeans drive these lawnmowers?”

But the destination kept him going: St. Moritz, Switzerland. He hadn’t thought about that snowy little playground of the elite in years. The Marshs had been invited during the Winter Olympics once, back when their show was just exploding into global fame. Stan remembered the icy air, the shiny ski gear, the never-ending press events. The whole family had smiled so hard their faces nearly froze off. But still, something about the Alps, clean, quiet, hidden, called to him now. It reminded him a little of Colorado, of home. Of the version of himself before the cameras.

His phone, Kenny’s burner, thankfully untraceable, vibrated. Shelley.

Stan hesitated for a second, then picked up.

“Where the fuck are you?” she snapped immediately. “Dad’s tearing apart the farm like a crime scene. You ghosted the show, turd. You ghosted the show mid-season.”

He let out a tired breath. “I needed to get away. I was losing it, Shells.”

Her sigh crackled through the line. “I get it, okay? I do. But you can’t get caught. You know how Dad is. You think he's pissed now? Wait until he finds out you've left the States.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not telling you where exactly I am. Safer for both of us.”

“You better be somewhere without a signal, then. Because your face is all over social media.”

He hung up before she could talk him into coming back. Not this time. He wasn’t coming back. Not yet. Maybe not ever. As he pulled into a gas station in some sleepy French town, he noticed how his legs wobbled a little when he stepped out of the car. He hadn’t realized how tense his body had been, cramped and coiled for hours. He stretched, grabbed a few snacks, real ones, not the sad, sugar-free granola bars that his nutritionist back home would’ve approved -and strolled up to the counter.

An elderly man with more wrinkles than hair stood behind the register, looking like he hadn’t had a real conversation in weeks. Stan smiled faintly. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

The man blinked, confused, until Stan held up his phone. “Take a photo of me. Here. In front of the gas station.”

“Photo? Oui. Okay.”

Stan posed with the ease of someone who had modeled Calvin Klein underwear on a billboard in Times Square: casual, one hand in the pocket of his hoodie, shades still on. But there was a sly smirk on his lips. Then he handed the man fifty euros.

“For you. Also… can you post that photo online? Not now. In twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty… hours?” the man repeated, baffled. “Why wait?”

“Trust me. It’s for drama,” Stan winked.

The man just shrugged again and nodded. “Okay.”

After that, Stan left the gas station with a bottle of soda, a bag of gummy bears, and the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly how to play the fame game. He got into his tiny Citroën, dumped the gummy bears into his lap, and checked his Finstagram. There it was.

Stan chuckled and shook his head.

Stan could almost hear the annoyance behind Kyle’s words. Still, it didn’t stop him from poking the bear.

Stan stared at the screen. That was the kind of thinking that had broken him in the first place. He tossed the phone into the passenger seat and bit into a gummy bear a little harder than necessary. This was going to be fun. Because Stan Marsh wasn’t running anymore. Now, he was hunting too.

…

Kyle lay on the lumpy motel bed, arms flung over his head, staring at the cracked ceiling like it had personally offended him. The mattress springs creaked every time he breathed. The wallpaper was peeling at the corners like it, too, wanted to escape. The whole place reeked faintly of cigarettes and disappointment. The last real trace he’d had of Stan Marsh had led him in circles. Paris was a bust. Five Guys - cold trail. And now here he was, in a glorified shoebox just outside of Lyon, surviving off instant coffee and dry croissants. The bathroom faucet made a gurgling noise that sounded like it was summoning the dead.

He groaned and turned on his phone, more out of habit than hope. Maybe ClarkKent11 had messaged him again. Kyle didn’t know why he even entertained that weird online flirtation anymore. He should’ve been creeped out, but he wasn’t. Probably because talking to the mysterious guy helped take the edge off the ever-looming threat of “if you don’t find Stan Marsh, you’re fired” that Francis had drilled into him like a death mantra.

While he scrolled through Instagram, preparing himself for the usual doomscrolling of vacation pics and influencer nonsense, a new post caught his eye.

ClarkKent11 liked this post.

Wait. What?

It was a grainy photo, taken in bad lighting, but it was unmistakably Stan Marsh. Standing in front of a dingy little gas station near a national forest. Hoodie. Shades. That smirk that Kyle had learned to hate during ten grueling seasons of Making It With The Marshs.

Heart pounding, Kyle bolted upright and stared at the background of the picture. The terrain. The logo. The chipped paint. Google Maps confirmed the location within minutes. It was just a couple hours from where he was. He didn’t even think twice. He shoved on his coat, grabbed his satchel, and sprinted out to the car, the ancient, boxy tin can that he’d affectionately nicknamed “The Sardine.” Within two hours, he was pulling up in front of the gas station, praying this wasn’t just another dead end.

The same old man stood behind the counter. He was clearly not expecting visitors. Kyle marched in like a man on a mission. “Hi. Bonjour. Hello. I need to ask you about the man in that Instagram post.”

The elderly man blinked at him, completely unfazed. “Post?”

Kyle held up his phone. “This one. Posted by @cigarettesandchai. That man. He was here. Right?”

The man shrugged, too casually. “Ah… oui. Maybe. People come. People go.”

Suspicious, Kyle narrowed his eyes. “He told you to post it after he left, didn’t he? Delayed upload. Come on. Be honest.”

The old man hesitated. That was answer enough for him.

“Look, I’m not the cops. I’m not paparazzi. I’m just a guy trying to keep his job. Please.”

There was a pause. Then, with a sigh of surrender, the man said, “He say… twenty-four hours. Wanted time. He give me money, told me to wait.”

Kyle exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Did he tell you where he was going?”

Another shrug. “Non. He bought food. Gas. Said something about mountains. That’s all.”

Frustrated again, Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. He was so close. He could taste the scoop. He’d been living out of his suitcase for days, existing on vending machine snacks and false hope. This couldn’t be another dead end.

The man, clearly finished being interrogated, moved to empty the small trash can near the coffee station, muttering about how nobody ever stopped here anymore.

The trash bag tore open as he lifted it, spilling crumpled papers across the tiled floor.

“Merde,” the man cursed.

Kyle dropped to his knees immediately to help. Paper cups, old receipts, a half-eaten croissant in a napkin. Then—something. A crumpled piece of paper, slightly smudged, covered in chicken-scratch writing that made Kyle’s breath catch.

He knew that handwriting.

He’d seen it on Stan’s to-do lists. On sticky notes on the Marsh fridge. On love letters to Wendy written during Season 3 when Stan still thought romance could be scripted. Kyle flattened the paper. It was a map. Cheap, printed. And circled in red pen:

St. Moritz.

Kyle stared at it. Then slowly, a smile curled onto his lips.

He stood and turned to the confused man behind the counter. “Merci. Seriously. You have no idea how much this helps.”

He shoved a twenty-euro bill onto the counter, grabbed the map, and bolted back out into the cold, heart pounding.

Screw TripAdvisor. Screw the peeling wallpaper. Screw everyone who said journalism was a dead career path. He had a clue now. Stan Marsh was headed for the Alps. And Kyle was so coming for him.

…

The drive toward the Alps was long, winding, and absolutely exhausting, but at least Kyle had someone to text with.

Well, someone.

It had started as banter. Something light, something to take his mind off the endless miles of Swiss countryside and the existential dread of what would happen if he failed to find Stan Marsh. ClarkKent11 had sent him a cheeky message that afternoon, the same way he had every day for the last ten days.

Kyle rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning. He pulled over at a scenic overlook- Alps in the background, the tiniest excuse for a gas station nearby- and typed back:

Kyle snorted and muttered to himself, “Unbelievable.” But he typed anyway:

Kyle blinked at the screen. Then his fingers flew over the keyboard.

For a second, Kyle thought the guy had chickened out. But then a new message popped in: just ten digits.

Kyle stared at the screen. No fucking way. He hesitated. Debated. Then curiosity, and the slim chance of being right, won out. He copied the number and hit “Call.”

The line rang once. Twice. And then...

“What?” barked a voice.

Definitely Shelley Marsh. Her signature scowl could be heard through the phone.

“Uh—hi. Is this Shelley Marsh? This is Kyle Broflovski. Would you be open for a few questions?” Kyle asked, heart pounding.

There was a beat of silence. Then, “Ugh. You’re that leech reporter. Kyle whatever. Stop stalking Stan. You creepy turd.”

“Wait, no—how do you—?”

“You think you’re clever, huh? The hashtags? The viral reel? The viral desperation? You’re wasting your life chasing someone who doesn’t want to be found.” Shelley sounded like she was pacing, probably scowling so hard her face hurt. “I’m the only one allowed to be an ass to my brother. You? You’re nothing. Just lowlife scum with a death wish.”

The call clicked off. Blocked.

Kyle stared at the screen, stunned. That... That really was Shelley Marsh. That meant…

His hands moved faster than his brain:

Irritated, Kyle bit the inside of his cheek.

Kyle slumped back in the car seat. The air grew colder as the sun dipped behind the mountains. He knew he should block ClarkKent11. Or at the very least stop indulging him. He had enough on his plate already. But the mystery of it was getting under his skin. This guy knew too much. Had Shelley’s number. Knew about Columbia. Couldn’t be just a fan. And worse: chatting with him made the long, lonely search bearable.

He typed back.

Kyle stared at those words long after the screen dimmed. Something about the way he said that made his stomach twist weirdly. There was something deeper there. He didn’t know what exactly. But he knew one thing for sure: he was closer than ever now.

…

Stan was stretched out like a spoiled prince on the chaise lounge of his fifth-floor suite in St. Moritz, wrapped in a thick white bathrobe and slippers so fluffy they could have been sheared off Swiss clouds. The view from his floor-to-ceiling window was annoyingly perfect—crystal-blue sky, snow-dusted pine trees, and the gentle gleam of a frozen lake in the distance. Somewhere out there, locals were probably skiing or sipping overpriced espresso.

Stan, meanwhile, was on his second glass of champagne before noon and scrolling through his messages with the kind of smugness only a man who had successfully faked a runaway across Europe could enjoy.

He loved messing with Kyle Broflovski.

God, it shouldn’t have been so fun. But it was. The whole thing—the fake Instagram account, the vague hints, the riddles, the complete mind games—was giving Stan something he hadn’t felt in a long time: control. Freedom. Even if Shelley was probably plotting his murder for handing her number over to a journalist.

So worth it.

Stan tapped out a new dm to Kyle with a self-satisfied smirk:

The answer came in under five minutes, which meant Kyle had probably thrown his phone across the bed and then snatched it up again in a fit of caffeine-fueled rage.

Stan took a lazy sip of his cocktail this time, something fruity and complicated, definitely the kind of drink his fitness coach would’ve banned. He leaned back, legs crossed, and let the silk of the hotel robe slide just enough for maximum dramatic lounging.

Then, he dropped a location pin.

A very specific one.

Stan clinked his champagne flute against the rim of his second glass like he was toasting himself. He was going to need to check into his hotel afterwards —under the pseudonym Leo D. Caprio.

…

Six hours later, Kyle stood outside Room 540 of the Grand Kronenhof, a hotel so luxurious it made Versailles look modest. The woman he'd asked for the way had laughed out loud. “You sure you don’t mean ‘Grand Hostel,’ monsieur?” Kyle, sweaty and still jet-lagged and morally bankrupt after downing two sugarfree Red Bulls and a gas station sandwich, knocked twice.

No answer.

He knocked again. “E! Network sent me,” he kept muttering under his breath like an idiot.

“Excuse me, monsieur?” A hotel staffer pushing a cart of chocolates and linens paused beside him. “Are you... Kyle Broflovski, perhaps?”

Kyle turned, suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”

“Ah, parfait!” The man smiled. “Room has been prepared for you. Paid in full. Two nights, yes? Breakfast and dinner included. We were told to expect you.”

“Wait, what?”

Before Kyle could protest, he was handed a shiny keycard and ushered in like royalty. When he opened the door to the suite, he was momentarily stunned by the sheer size of it: marble floors, vaulted ceilings, a fireplace, a king-size bed that could fit at least four existential crises.

But the room was empty. No Stan Marsh.

Just a DVD case, carefully placed on the pristine white duvet.

Catch Me If You Can. Spielberg. Tom Hanks. Leonardo DiCaprio.

Kyle blinked. On top of the DVD was a yellow Post-it.

Tee hee :)

Scrawled in handwriting so chaotic and crooked, it could only belong to one man.

“Son of a bitch—” Kyle growled, running a hand through his curls and flopping down on the edge of the mattress. The absurd luxury of it all only made his rage burn hotter.

ClarkKent11 was Stan Marsh.

The golden boy of reality television. The stupidly hot heartthrob of America’s favorite fake family. The runaway prince who’d just lured him across multiple countries, gave him Shelley Marsh’s phone number, tricked him into checking into a hotel that probably cost more than his rent, and left behind a Spielberg clue like this was a scavenger hunt.

He wanted to be mad. Hell, he was mad.

But a grudging smile tugged at the corner of Kyle’s mouth.

He’d been played like a violin. Perfectly. By Stan fucking Marsh.

He picked up the DVD, flipped it in his hand, and muttered under his breath: “Alright, Marsh. Game on.”

Chapter Text

While Kyle Broflovski seethed inside the velvet-wrapped luxury of the Grand Kronenhof suite in St. Moritz, biting into a bitter complimentary chocolate that tasted of humiliation and mockery, Stan was long gone. Like, hundreds-of-miles-and-an-entire-country gone. He’d crossed the Italian border sometime around 5 am, sunglasses on, hoodie up, and his old Citroën humming like a dying toaster. The GPS was janky and half the road signs didn’t make sense, but Stan had managed to navigate his way south anyway. By noon, he was just outside of Bologna. And he was starving.

He’d pulled off the highway to a nameless little roadside restaurant that looked like it hadn’t seen a tourist since the 90s. It was perfect. Not a single poster of his face, no whispers, no cellphones aimed at him from across the room. Still, Stan ordered his pizza to go 'cause paranoia clung to him like the scent of hairspray from ten years of reality TV.

Now, he sat in the cramped front seat of his glorified go-kart of a car, folded awkwardly over a personal Margherita that looked like something out of a food documentary: simple, fresh, and way less greasy than the stuff back home.

He took a bite and let out an involuntary, satisfied moan.

“Jeez,” he muttered with a full mouth. “This is... fucking unholy.”

He licked tomato sauce off his thumb just as his burner phone vibrated with new dms.

Stan choked on a piece of crust from laughter. He had to set the pizza down before he spilled hot mozzarella all over his lap.

Stan grinned like a lunatic in his little Citroën and tapped his fingers against the wheel like a conductor of chaos. He could practically feel Kyle’s eye twitching through the screen.

And maybe it was messed up, but he was enjoying this. Way too much. Maybe because it was the first time in years that he was the one writing the script instead of following his dad’s. Maybe because it was the only real connection he’d had with anyone since he bolted from the States—an intense, ridiculous, sarcastic connection built on banter and half-truths.

He picked up his phone again. This time, not to taunt, but to send something a bit more cryptic.

And with that, Stan cranked the engine of his boxy little car and merged back onto the highway, the sun warm on his face, the taste of basil still on his tongue, and a thousand miles of possibility ahead of him.

Hours later, he drove the winding, sun-drenched roads of eastern Italy with his window cracked open and his playlist set to nostalgic indie rock hits from his elementary school days, back before Making It with the Marshs had turned his life into an endless cycle of reshoots, makeup chairs, and “Stan, smile for the camera.” He’d long since passed Bologna (the car hummed like it might give out any moment) until the GPS finally announced, with a robotic Italian accent, “Benvenuto a Pesaro.”

The coastal town came into view like a painting: colorful houses, cobblestone alleys, the Adriatic sparkling just beyond the hills. He followed the pin on his phone to a modest apartment complex nestled behind a small grocery store and what looked like a discount pizzeria. He cut the engine and took a breath. It’d been years since he’d seen his old friend, but if there was anyone in Europe who might let him crash without asking too many questions, it was him.

Stan knocked twice on the faded green door of the second-floor unit. For a second, he thought maybe no one was home, until the door creaked open to reveal Craig Tucker himself, looking every bit as unimpressed as ever.

“Holy shit,” Craig said flatly and stared at him with his usual deadpan expression. “Are you lost or just dramatically running from your problems?”

Stan grinned. “A little bit of column A, a lot of column B.”

Craig blinked, then stepped aside. “Come in, you lunatic.”

The apartment was tiny. Like, closet-sized-kitchen, one-bedroom-with-a-squeaky-door tiny. But it smelled like coffee and garlic and fresh laundry, and Stan found it instantly comforting. He dropped his bag on the floor and turned to Craig. “Can I crash on your couch for, like, a little while? Just till I figure out what I’m doing next.”

Craig shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Sure. As long as you don’t eat my cereal or touch my tax spreadsheets.”

Stan let out a breath of relief and flopped onto the lumpy couch like it was the Four Seasons. “God, I missed how normal you are. Everyone else back home either wants something from me or freaks out when I show up.”

“That’s because everyone back home is fucking weird,” Craig said as he walked into the kitchen. “Also, I’ve seen you cry after stubbing your toe on set. You’re not that intimidating.”

Stan snorted.

A moment later, another voice piped up from the back room. “Craig? Who’s that?”

Craig yelled over his shoulder, “It’s Stan Marsh, the runaway reality star. Apparently crashing here now.”

Stan sat up as a twitchy-looking guy with messy blond hair and glasses peeked out from behind a curtain. He looked like he was deciding whether to be scared or impressed.

“Oh wow,” the guy said. “The Stan Marsh?”

“Guilty.” Stan raised a hand in a half-wave. 

The guy stepped into the room, wringing his hands awkwardly. “I’m Tweek. I live here too. Uh—hi.”

Stan blinked when he noticed his lack of accent. “Wait, you’re American?”

“Yup. Parents opened a coffeeshop in Naples when I was fifteen,” Tweek explained, quickly, like it was a rehearsed line. “We stuck around after that. I speak both, uh, English and Italian. Kind of. Sort of. Fluently.” He glanced nervously at Craig, who gave him a reassuring look.

“Tweek’s my boyfriend,” Craig added helpfully.

“No kidding. You two make sense. Like a ‘one of us will do the taxes and the other will have a panic attack about the taxes’ kind of sense.”

Tweek laughed despite himself. “That’s... disturbingly accurate.”

“And you’re from Colorado too?” Stan asked curiously.

Tweek nodded. “Small town outside of Boulder. You?”

“South Park. Farm north of Aspen. Small world, huh?”

Craig handed him a glass of water. “The smallest. Anyway, the couch is yours. But no leaving dirty socks under the cushions. Tweek’s sensitive.”

Tweek made a wounded noise. “One time. One time.”

Stan couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time in maybe weeks, he didn’t feel like he had to run. Not yet, anyway. He had a roof, a lumpy couch, and two people who didn’t ask him for autographs or answers. For tonight, that was enough. He glanced down at his burner phone lighting up with another notification, probably another pissed-off dm from Kyle Broflovski. Stan smirked to himself. Let the journalist sweat. This round belonged to Pesaro.

…

Kyle lay sprawled on the massive king-sized bed of the Grand Hotel Kronenhof. His phone rested on his chest like a stubborn ghost refusing to give him peace. Two nights of opulence had dulled the sting only a little. Room service, heated floors, and an absurdly soft bathrobe all funded by the very same dude who’d just ghosted him with the finesse of a magician disappearing behind a puff of smoke.

ClarkKent11—or rather, Stan fucking Marsh—had stopped answering since the infuriating “Tee hee :)” stunt. Kyle had scoured St. Moritz for any trace of him and come up empty. He’d driven through the winding Swiss roads until he hit the edge of Italy, but the trail had gone cold. No more cryptic dms, no more surprise maps, no hotel receipts, no blurry fan photos. Nothing.

He sat up and sighed, then grabbed his phone and hit speed dial.

Bebe picked up on the second ring. “Tell me you found him.”

“Tell me where to look,” Kyle groaned. “Because I’ve got nothing. He’s gone. Vanished. I fear he actually wins this time.”

She paused, then in a tone half-teasing and half-serious said, “So the bright Columbia grad just admitted defeat to a shirtless reality star?”

“I didn’t say defeat,” Kyle muttered. “I said he wins this round.”

Bebe chuckled. “So what’s the plan?”

“I don’t have a plan. He’s completely ghosted me. The guy’s a shadow. A fast-food loving, post-it-leaving, smug-ass ghost.”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “if you don’t know where he is, then you’ve gotta talk to someone who does.”

“Like who?” he asked as he desperately ran a hand through his curls. “He doesn’t exactly have a circle. Shelley blocked me after calling me a rat-faced turd. His dad’s a dead end and I’m not stalking Sharon Marsh. That’s... ugh, that’s TMZ territory.”

“Then what about Wendy?” Bebe said suddenly.

“His ex?”

“Yeah. The same Wendy who commented under your viral post about finding Stan,” Bebe said pointedly. “Which means she saw it. Which means she might care. And—wait—hang on, I’m pulling up her Instagram now...”

Kyle could hear her furiously tapping through photos.

“—okay, okay! She posted a story with that boyfriend of hers, Gregory. They're in Venice.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said and sat upright.

“One of the most romantic cities on Earth,” Bebe continued with mock dreamy wonder. “How tragic for them that an exhausted, slightly pissed-off journalist might crash their date night.”

“I swear, if I find Stan by third-wheeling an ex and her new dude, I’m gonna fucking sue the universe for emotional whiplash.”

“You won’t. You’ll write about it and win an award.”

“Where exactly are they?” He already grabbed his duffel bag and stuffed it with wrinkled clothes.

“She tagged a fancy-ass restaurant on the Grand Canal,” Bebe said. “La Rosa something. Hold on… La Rosa Veneziana. You’ve got time. The post says dinner’s at eight.”

Kyle glanced at the digital clock on the hotel nightstand. Noon sharp. Eight hours. He could just make it if he didn’t hit too much traffic or accidentally crash into a lake in northern Italy.

“You’re a lifesaver, Bebe,” he said.

“Obviously,” she answered smugly. “Now go. Interrogate an ex. Shake a gondolier. Seduce a waiter. Whatever it takes.”

“I hate how excited you are about this.”

“Don’t lie. You love the drama.”

Kyle hung up with a small, tired smile and tossed the phone into the passenger seat of his rental. St. Moritz behind him, Venice ahead. He had eight hours, a dwindling bank account, and a growing obsession with a runaway reality star who had made him feel like a pawn in a very expensive game of cat and mouse.

But if Wendy knew where Stan had gone next? Then the next round was his.

By the time Kyle arrived in Venice, the sun had just begun to dip beneath the terracotta skyline and left streaks of lavender and rose in its wake. Gondolas drifted lazily along the canals and the air smelled faintly of salt and freshly baked bread. The romance of the place, however, was entirely wasted on Kyle, whose eyes were bloodshot from too much driving and not enough sleep. He checked into the cheapest motel he could find on the outskirts of the city, a squat, yellowing building that looked like it had seen better decades. It wasn’t exactly the Grand Hotel Kronenhof. The sheets were rough, the plumbing sounded like it was chewing on nails, and the air conditioning unit coughed like it had bronchitis. Still, it was a roof, and at this point in this insane quest, that was enough.

After a quick, barely-warm shower and a gas station sandwich that tasted like cardboard, Kyle swung by a thrift store. The guy behind the counter was too engrossed in his phone to bat an eye at Kyle rummaging through racks of dusty formalwear. By some miracle of fashion fate, he even found a navy-blue suit that almost fit. He tightened the belt one extra notch, ironed the shirt with his motel room’s hairdryer, and muttered encouragements to his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror.

By 8:00 pm sharp, he stood before the elegant façade of La Rosa Veneziana. Its warm golden lights twinkled like something out of a dream. A string quartet played faintly inside, and elegantly dressed guests stepped out of expensive black cars. Their laughter mingled with the gentle ripple of the nearby canal. The restaurant looked more like a palace than a place that served food. Opulent chandeliers gleamed through the tall windows, and a velvet rope guarded the entrance like a secret society.

Kyle squared his shoulders and approached the entrance. A poised, unsmiling woman in a black satin dress stood beside a velvet rope, holding a guest list on a tablet.

“Good evening.” Kyle put on his best polite-reporter voice. “I know I’m not on the list, but I only want to speak to someone inside. I promise it’ll only take a minute.”

Her perfectly plucked brows lifted. “You and every stalker in Venice,” she said dryly, unimpressed. She looked Kyle up and down with the kind of expression usually reserved for roaches or bad cologne. “I’m sorry, signore, this is a private dinner.”

But Kyle held his ground. He'd come this far now, there was no way he was backing down. “Please, Ma'am. Her name’s Wendy Testaburger. I’m not here to crash anything. She’ll know me—well, not know me, but I’m the one who started the #FindStanMarsh thing. Can you just tell her Kyle Broflovski is here?”

The woman looked him up and down. The thrift store suit probably wasn’t helping. After a moment of suspicious hesitation, she gave a tight nod, stepped inside, and vanished behind heavy double doors.

Kyle waited. And waited.

Then the doors opened again, and she reappeared, holding the rope open. “Ms. Testaburger will see you.”

He was ushered through the entryway and into the VIP section, an opulent dining room lit by chandeliers that sparkled like they were spun from diamonds. Velvet drapes lined the walls, the smell of truffle risotto and aged wine hung in the air, and everyone around him looked like they were about to star in a luxury perfume ad.

And there she was.

Wendy Testaburger.

Even more breathtaking in person than any of the dozens of paparazzi photos online. Her long, raven hair cascaded over her bare shoulders in waves. Her red lips curled into a smile of amused curiosity, and her hazel eyes sparkled almost golden under the light. She looked like the villainess of a smutty noir film in the best way.

Beside her sat Gregory of Yardale, in all his smug, chiseled-jaw glory. His hair was artfully tousled, his expression bored but polished. He looked like he had strong opinions about red wine and stock portfolios. Kyle disliked him immediately.

“Well, well,” Wendy purred as she rested her chin on her hand. “The infamous man behind the #FindStanMarsh saga. You’re taller than I expected.”

“And you’re… a lot more gracious than I expected. Thanks for seeing me.” Kyle offered a sheepish smile. 

Gregory raised an eyebrow. “So you’re the guy chasing Stan across Europe. He’s totally out of control, by the way.”

Kyle smiled tightly. Something about Gregory’s face made him want to throw a breadstick at it. “Chasing is a strong word,” he said. “I prefer… pursuing with journalistic integrity.”

Wendy chuckled softly and swirled her wine. “You’re braver than I thought, showing up here. Or dumber.”

“Possibly both,” Kyle said, then pulled a chair over and took a seat. “I know it’s a long shot, but… do you know where Stan might’ve gone? Anything helps. I think I’m getting close.”

She sipped her wine and tilted her head. “Stan and I lost touch months ago. But if he’s in Europe, there’s one place he’d go. Pesaro. There’s a guy there, Craig Tucker. His dad used to be part of the crew for Making It with the Marshs. They were friends, or at least Stan trusted him. He and Craig used to sneak off between filming to avoid the crew.”

Kyle’s heart jumped. Stan had already mentioned wanting to visit an old friend before he stopped replying. “Craig Tucker. Got it. Pesaro. That’s—god, that’s not even that far.”

Wendy smiled. “Tell him I said hi if you find him.”

“I will,” Kyle said, genuinely touched. He got up quickly. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much you're helping me.”

“You sure you don’t want to stay for a drink?” she asked. “You’ve already crashed our date.”

“I’d hate to intrude,” Kyle muttered, though his stomach growled at the sight of the parmesan risotto being brought to their table. “But I’ll just…” He quickly swiped a handful of the elegant breadsticks from the silver basket. “Take these for the road.”

Wendy laughed. Even Gregory looked faintly amused. And Kyle offered a final nod and turned to go, stuffing a garlic breadstick in his mouth as he made his way back out of the restaurant.

He had a name now. Craig Tucker. And a location. Pesaro.

Stan Marsh’s trail was warm again. Hell, yes.

As he stepped out into the Venetian night, Kyle bit into another breadstick like a prize and muttered to himself, “Pesaro, here I come.”

…

For the next two days, Stan lay low in Craig and Tweek’s tiny apartment in Pesaro. The modest one-bedroom was cramped, the ceilings low, the furniture mismatched, and the kitchen barely functional—but it was safe. It felt like a small, cozy bubble where the world and all its pressures couldn’t reach him. He spent his afternoons sprawled on Craig’s secondhand couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, chatting with Kyle Broflovski™, his favorite obsession of late. Kyle still hadn’t figured out Stan’s location, and that only made their messages more entertaining.

Stan chuckled aloud, then flipped his phone onto the couch cushion as Craig returned from work and dropped his messenger bag on the floor with a sigh.

“You still texting your stalker?” Craig asked dryly while he toed off his shoes with the enthusiasm of a man twice his age.

“He’s not a stalker. He’s a Columbia grad on a mission,” Stan answered, grinning. “I like watching his clever brain overheat.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “You are truly the worst. Get a life, man.”

Stan spent most of the daylight hours lounging, but when Craig got home and Tweek returned from university, the tiny apartment came to life. The three of them huddled around the old TV with battered controllers, shouting at each other in Italian and English as they played co-op games like Overcooked and Mario Kart. Stan yelled the loudest. Tweek was sneakily good at every game and apologized after every win.

Between sessions, Stan even pitched in around the place: vacuuming, folding laundry, mopping the entire apartment until the tiles gleamed. There was something weirdly therapeutic about dragging the mop back and forth, like he could erase his own shitty past with each sweep. Meals were almost always takeout. None of them could cook to save their lives, and the kitchen mostly held empty pizza boxes and paper bags. Stan didn’t mind, he could eat whatever the fuck he wanted now. No on-set trainers. No dieticians. No calorie-counting. Just pasta, gelato, and greasy burgers if he wanted.

Tweek, curious as always, shared bits about his life while they ate. “After high school, I worked in a library for a bit,” he explained. “Didn’t really know what I wanted to do. Then I figured… I like math. So now I’m back in school for it.”

“Wait,” Stan blinked, chewing on a fry. “You chose to go back to school?”

Tweek shrugged. “I like knowing things. And Craig’s been helping. Mostly with motivation.”

Clark, lounging with his usual blank expression, simply said, “By yelling.”

But even in the quiet, even with the temporary peace, Stan knew the bubble couldn’t last. And of course, Craig had to remind him of that.

“You can’t hide in this cave forever,” Craig said, one eyebrow raised, as he scrolled through his phone. “You’re not Gollum. You need to socialize.”

Stan pulled a blanket over his face. “Pass.”

Clark yanked the blanket off without mercy. “Nope. Too late. You’re coming out with us tonight.”

“Tonight already?” Stan sat up, alarmed.

“There’s a Halloween party,” Craig said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Organized by students from Tweek’s uni. One of those rich kids owns a mansion on the coast. Costumes mandatory.”

Stan narrowed his eyes. “You want me, a former reality star with a public breakdown, to attend a college party with hundreds of drunk strangers? Are you high?”

Craig didn’t flinch. “Nah. But you’re paranoid. And this is the perfect way to not be recognized. We’ll disguise you so much you won't even recognize yourself. No one will know it’s you under the costume.”

“And what, we’re all just dressing up and crashing a mansion party?”

“I was already dragging Tweek to socialize, to get him out of his comfort zone,” Craig said. He gestured toward the kitchen where Tweek was quietly sipping his tea. “Now I’m dragging your antisocial ass too. I win twice.”

Tweek peeked around the corner, looking a little nervous. “It’ll be okay. These parties are loud and chaotic, but, like… fun chaotic. Or so I hope.”

Stan groaned dramatically. “I hate you both.”

“No you don’t,” Craig said. “You just hate that I’m damn right.”

Stan sighed, defeated. But deep down, something inside him sparked. It wasn’t just the game he was playing with Kyle anymore. It was the thrill of hiding in plain sight. The freedom to be someone else, even if only for one night.

“… Okay, let's do this,” Stan muttered. “But I swear to God, if someone asks me if I was on Making It with the Marshs, I’m jumping out the window.”

For once, Craig grinned his rare grins. “Noted. Now, let’s figure out what kind of embarrassing costume you'll be wearing.”

Chapter Text

Kyle had been in Pesaro for less than a day and already felt like he was chasing ghosts.

After checking into yet another sleazy motel with flickering hallway lights and a persistent smell of mildew, he’d gone out early that morning with purpose. Armed with nothing more than Craig Tucker’s name and a vague idea that he worked in town, Kyle began his rounds. He asked discreetly at local businesses, posed as a friendly old acquaintance, flashed a fabricated smile like he definitely wasn’t stalking a semi-famous celebrity through Europe.

Most people blinked in confusion or apologized, saying they didn’t know any Craig Tucker. He got a few sympathetic looks and one overly friendly man who offered to introduce him to a “Claude Tucker” who ran a fish shop.

But finally, in the back office of a financial firm with a peeling blue door, a middle-aged receptionist named Lucia had raised a brow in recognition.

“Craig? Sì, he works here sometimes, he's a freelancer. Doesn’t come in every day though.”

Kyle nearly leapt over the desk. “Great! Do you know where he lives?”

Lucia gave him a skeptical look. “I’m not supposed to share that.”

“I understand, and I really respect that,” Kyle said. “But we went to college together. I just want to reconnect, maybe surprise him.”

Lucia still hesitated.

Then, to Kyle’s shock, she said, “Leave your number. I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe I remember something by then.”

It wasn’t much. But it was so much more than he had yesterday.

Feeling cautiously optimistic, Kyle left the office. He turned his steps back toward his motel, half-ready to collapse into his questionably clean bed and wallow in cold despair for the night.

But suddenly…

“Kyle? Kyle Broflovski?”

The familiar voice made him stop dead. He turned around and there, lounging casually outside a cozy gelateria, was an old friend.

“Holy shit—Tolkien?” Kyle blinked.

Tolkien grinned and stood up to give him a bro hug. “Dude, what are you doing here?”

Kyle laughed, amazed. “I could ask you the same. You vanish for a year and now you’re in Italy?”

Tolkien shrugged. “Needed a break from New York. My folks have this place here, holiday home thing, super quiet. Good for resetting.”

Of course they did. The Blacks were the kind of rich that had ski cabins in Aspen, yachts in Santorini, and no concept of budget travel.

“Wow,” Kyle said, shaking his head.

“This is Bianca, by the way,” Tolkien added. Only now, Kyle noticed the stunning brunette beside him. “She’s a local and my neighbor. We’ve been hanging out while I figure out whether I’m gonna write a book or just drink espresso for six months straight.”

"And neither is a good idea, my friend." Bianca smiled warmly at Kyle. “Ciao, Kyle. Tolkien’s told me stories about you. Something about getting locked out of your dorm during a thunderstorm?”

“That happened once,” Kyle said, groaning.

They all laughed.

“Come on, join us.” Tolkien gestured to the café nearby. “Beer’s on me.”

“Sure,” Kyle said. Why the hell not?

They settled into a small table. The late afternoon sun cast golden rays over the cobbled square. Kyle finally relaxed a little, sipping from his beer and enjoying the familiar banter. He explained, a little hesitantly, what had brought him here.

Bianca's eyes widened. “Wait... you’re the one from the #FindStanMarsh thing? That’s been everywhere. I’ve seen your face online!”

Kyle rubbed his neck. “Yeah. That’s me. Unfortunately.”

“Have you found him yet?” she asked eagerly.

Kyle shook his head, discouraged. “I had a lead, but it’s gone cold. Again.”

“Well,” Tolkien said, draining his beer, “sounds like what you need is to blow off some steam.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “How exactly do I do that in a town where the average nightlife ends at 9 pm?”

“That’s the thing,” Bianca said with twinkling eyes. “There’s a Halloween party tonight. University party, hosted by my cousin. Big house, lots of people, and best of all, costumes.”

“You’re inviting me to a student Halloween party?”

“Absolutely,” Tolkien said. “You’re overdue for a night off.”

“I don’t even have a costume,” Kyle tried to talk himself out of it.

“We’ll fix that.” Bianca winked at him. “Tolkien will pay.”

Tolkien raised a hand in mock solemnity. “My trust fund accepts the charge.”

Kyle wasn't so sure whether that was a good idea. This was no vacation, after all. He was here because of his job. He was on the cusp of something again, maybe about to get real information on Stan’s whereabouts. But on the other hand, he also hadn’t had a real night out in weeks. And a Halloween party might offer more than just drinks, it might loosen tongues. Students talked, and one of them might know Craig Tucker, or better yet, might’ve seen Stan.

He sighed. “Only one night. But if I wake up in a toga surrounded by goats—”

“No goats,” Bianca promised, smiling. “Just good music, bad dancing, and one hell of a distraction.”

…

The night of the Halloween party came in like a warm breeze carrying the scent of change and the distant thump of bass-heavy music.

Kyle stood in front of a mirror in the guest bathroom of Bianca’s cousin’s place, trying not to smudge the carefully painted lines around his mouth. His face had been transformed into the Joker: cracked white foundation, sinister black smudges around his eyes, and a wicked red smile stretching far past the corners of his lips. Bianca had done a scarily good job applying the makeup, even if she’d giggled way too much while doing it.

He adjusted the cheap green wig that now covered his trademark red curls, and for once, he didn’t look like himself. That was oddly liberating.

“You look unhinged,” Bianca said approvingly. She was standing in the doorway in her Wednesday Addams getup: black braids, white collar, knee-high socks, and the perfect deadpan expression.

“That’s kind of the point, right?” Kyle flashed her a too-wide creepy grin in the mirror.

Tolkien strolled in behind her, fully decked out in a trench coat and black sunglasses. His Blade costume fit him so well it was almost unfair. He tossed Kyle a fake plastic knife. “Here. Complete the look. Also, drink responsibly, Mr. Joker.”

“I make no promises,” Kyle grinned as he slipped the plastic knife into the belt of his dark purple suit.

The mansion was already packed when they made it downstairs. The music shook the walls, deep house, reggaeton, some trap remixes of spooky classics, and bodies moved like shadows under strobe lights and flickering orange bulbs. A fog machine churned somewhere near the entrance, giving everything a chaotic haunted feel.

Alcohol was flowing like rivers in every direction, tables filled with bowls of punch, trays of shots passed around by people in full body paint or animal masks. The crowd was dressed in everything from elaborate vampire getups to lazy last-minute "ghosts" with bedsheets. It was the kind of party that felt like it had no real beginning or end, just motion and noise and heat.

Tolkien leaned in close to be heard over the bass. “B's cousin says we can crash upstairs if it gets too wild. Second floor, any of the guest rooms. No one’ll bother us.”

That immediately took some pressure off. Kyle had been a coiled spring for days. He'd been tracking Stan nonstop, hunting clues, driving from country to country. He hadn't slept well since Zurich, and he hadn't really relaxed in what felt like weeks. Knowing he didn’t have to stumble back to his sketchy motel afterward helped.

“I might actually let loose for once,” Kyle shouted back.

“You better,” Tolkien shouted. “It’s Halloween!”

Bianca gave him a sly smile. “I want to see Joker dance.”

And so, for the first time in what felt like forever, Kyle let the music pull him in.

He drifted from room to room, downed a blood-red cocktail someone handed him, then another. The fog and lights blurred together. The Joker’s painted smile on his face made it easy to blend in, to play a role. He danced without thinking, without planning, without that relentless voice in his head screaming about Stan Marsh and deadlines and maps.

Tolkien and Bianca were somewhere in the throng, mingling, laughing, lost in the chaos of costumes and chaos. Kyle didn’t care. The drinks were hitting harder now and the warmth spread in his limbs. He spun with a Cleopatra, bumped shoulders with a werewolf, fist-bumped a guy dressed as a literal bottle of wine.

The music pounded through his chest like a second heartbeat, and for a moment, the Joker was all that existed. Not Kyle the intern. Not Kyle the wannabe journalist chasing a reality star ghost through Europe. Just… some guy in a wig and too much makeup, dancing like he was free.

He leaned back against a wall when his legs started to wobble, chest heaving from movement and drink. A vampire asked him if he wanted another shot, and he just laughed and waved him off.

He was drunk. Like really drunk. And it felt fucking amazing.

The last thing he thought before slipping into motion again was, Stan Marsh can wait one more night.

Speaking of the devil.

Meanwhile, deep in the belly of the same grand mansion, Stan was having the time of his life.

No cameras, no screaming fans, no handlers or Marsh-brand obligations. Just pulsing music, cheap alcohol, and more fake blood than a horror movie marathon.

And best of all? Absolutely no one knew who he was.

Craig and Tweek had gone all in on their plan to make Stan as unrecognizable as humanly possible. Stan, once the tabloid-cover darling of American reality TV, was now waddling around dressed as a Minion. Yes. A Minion.

The costume was a fever dream: yellow face paint, a yellow beanie pulled low to hide his buzzcut, blue overalls, black boots, and giant plastic goggles perched on his forehead. It was ridiculous. It was uncomfortable. It was perfect.

“I hate how good this looks,” Stan had grumbled earlier as Craig adjusted the goggles for the fifth time.

“I hate how much you’re loving it,” Craig had answered, dressed as Mario - red cap, overalls, and a fake mustache that kept sliding off his upper lip. Tweek, beside him as Luigi, had chuckled nervously and posed for photos before slapping Stan’s back.

“Come on, Gru’s waiting,” he’d said, then winked and disappeared into the crowd with Craig.

Now, left to his own devices, Stan was happily drowning in the joy of being nobody. The fog machines, the strobe lights, the sea of college kids packed into a palazzo that had likely once hosted royalty, it was all a chaotic dream.

He downed his third drink, some glowing neon concoction in a blood bag, and let the music pull him onto the dance floor.

The costume made it hard to move like himself, but that only made it easier to disappear. He danced like a dork. Like a freak. Like no one was watching because for once, no one was. No cameras. No fans. No expectations. He wasn’t Stan Marsh. He was just… a yellow idiot having a great time.

And then he saw him.

Across the dance floor, spotlighted in the occasional flicker of light, was the Joker.

The guy was tall, lean, painted up with manic precision: white face, smeared red grin, wild green wig. He danced like he didn’t have a single worry in the world, every movement unrestrained, joyful, and a little bit feral. He was grinning, sweating, laughing without a sound. He looked like he belonged to the chaos around them... and Stan couldn’t look away.

There was something mesmerizing about him. The Joker didn’t seem like someone trying to be seen. He seemed like someone trying to forget everything.

Stan tilted his head, sipping the last of his drink through a novelty straw and blinking behind the Minion goggles.

Who was that guy?

Not that it mattered, really. Stan wasn’t looking to flirt. Not tonight. Tonight, he just wanted to feel. And watching the Joker dance was enough.

Still… he found himself drifting closer. Not close enough to be creepy. Just enough to watch.

He danced nearby, let the beat move through him, head bobbing like a happy fool in banana-yellow paint. The Joker didn’t notice him. Or if he did, he didn’t care. Either way, it was freeing.

Stan had spent years trying to be seen. Tonight, he loved being invisible.

He laughed, loud, carefree, too many drinks in, and threw his hands up as the music shifted to something darker, deeper. His goggles fogged slightly with sweat and motion.

The Joker twirled and tipped his head back with laughter. Stan smiled under his beanie, breathless, and thought: This is the best night of my life.

Later that night, the music was still thundering through the walls, but the energy in Stan’s limbs was draining fast.

He’d been dancing for hours, maybe too many. The yellow makeup was smudged now, the goggles fogged beyond visibility, and the blue overalls felt heavy with sweat. His stomach sloshed with god-knows-how-many drinks and his throat burned from laughing too much, shouting too loudly. The thrill of anonymity was still there, but so was a wave of fatigue that was finally catching up to him like a freight train.

He blinked blearily and rubbed his tired eyes with a gloved hand. Okay. Time to call it.

So he tugged his beanie down lower as he pushed his way through the crowd, searching for Craig or Tweek. He checked the courtyard. The back balcony. Even near the snack tables.

Nothing.

“Craig?” he called out weakly over the bass. “Tweek?”

No response.

He reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out his phone, only to be greeted by a black screen.

Dead.

“Fuck,” he muttered and wobbled on his feet. His legs ached. His head swam.

And he was suddenly, violently tired. The kind of tired that sunk into your bones and made the idea of lying down somewhere, anywhere, feel like the greatest thing in the world. He leaned against the stair railing as he watched the bodies sway and swirl below him like a painting smeared in motion.

It had to be past 4 am. Maybe 5. Maybe later. Hell, it might already be morning.

With a groan, he peeled himself off the railing and staggered up the stairs.

People passed him on the way down, laughing, half-dressed, smelling of booze and cheap perfume. He heard moaning behind closed doors. Some rooms he opened by accident, only to be met with making out couples, shirtless dudes, and at one point a throuple of vampires that did not appreciate the interruption.

“Sorry, sorry, my bad,” he slurred and backed out.

His feet dragged down the long hallway until finally, he pushed open a door and found a room that wasn’t lit up with neon or candles or chaos. It was dim. Quiet. And, mercifully, not packed with people.

There was only a bed with a single figure already in it, turned away from him, a hoodie pulled halfway up over his head.

Stan hovered in the doorway, barely able to stand.

“Hey,” he rasped, “mind if I, uh… just crash here?”

A sleepy grunt. Then a mumble: “Sure. Just sleep.”

That was all he needed.

Stan stumbled in, kicked off his boots, and tore the Minion goggles off his face. He tugged off the yellow beanie, flung it somewhere across the room, and half-collapsed onto the bed.

The mattress was soft. The sheets cool. He exhaled like a man who’d reached heaven.

“You’re the best, dude,” he mumbled to the stranger in the bed beside him. “Seriously. Life saver.”

“Mmhm,” the guy answered, barely coherent.

Stan didn’t even think to look. Didn’t even want to.

He rolled onto his side, one arm tucked under the pillow. His muscles ached and his brain floated in alcohol and exhaustion. Within seconds, he was asleep, breathing softly beside the stranger in the dark.

…

The soft chime of bells from a church nearby stirred Kyle awake.

His body was warm, heavy, limbs tangled in a mess of unfamiliar bedsheets. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling, then frowned at the foreign, faintly ornate molding above him. The thick curtains in the room blocked most of the sunlight, but the vague golden glow spilling through them told him it was late. Maybe really late.

He groaned as a dull ache hummed behind his eyes. The last thing he remembered was dancing, a lot of drinking, more dancing. Oh right—the Joker costume. He vaguely recalled smudged lipstick, Bianca’s laughter as she painted his face, and then…

He turned his head slowly.

The other side of the bed was occupied.

A figure, clearly male, lay with his back turned to him, breathing in soft, steady rhythms. A dark hoodie was pulled over his head, and yellow-tinted pillowcases were smeared with something that looked suspiciously like makeup.

What the fuck—

Kyle quietly eased himself out of bed, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. He grabbed his phone (barely alive at 7%), and tiptoed to the adjacent bathroom.

Inside, the harsh bathroom light made him wince.

His face looked like a horror show: smeared green dye near his hairline, black paint bleeding into the corners of his eyes, his red lipstick Joker grin half erased. He splashed cold water onto his face, using hotel-grade soap to scrub the makeup away. His curls were matted under the now-askew wig, which he quickly peeled off and tossed onto the counter.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

Still hungover. Still tired. But alive.

He smirked faintly. “That could’ve been worse.”

As he dried his face, he remembered the stranger. Just some rando who had shared the room out of desperation, probably as drunk and lost as he’d been. Maybe they could laugh about it. Maybe not. Whatever. He’d just grab his things and go.

When he re-entered the room, he saw that the other guy had stirred.

The figure stretched and groaned quietly. Then he sat up and rubbed his face blearily. His hoodie slid off and revealed the black buzzcut, yellow-painted face, and the ruined Minion outfit that looked even more tragic now in daylight.

Kyle stared.

The guy blinked at him.

They stared at each other in groggy confusion for a full ten seconds before it hit.

“…you?” Kyle blurted.

Stan’s face froze mid-yawn. Then he blinked rapidly. His features contorted into alarm, followed immediately by outrage.

“What the fuck?!”

“Wait, you’re the guy I shared a bed with?” Kyle asked, dumbfounded.

Stan threw off the sheets like they were suddenly on fire. “You creep! You followed me here, didn’t you?! You tracked me down and snuck into this room!”

Kyle's brows shot up. “What? No! You came into my room, remember? I was already here!”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Stan snapped, voice rising with each word. “You’ve been trying to get an interview for weeks, and now what? You sneak into a party, find a bed, and just happen to sleep next to me? That’s not coincidence!”

“Hey, think! Why would I put myself through this much effort just to cuddle up next to you in a Minion suit? I didn’t even know you were here! I came with friends!”

"Friends here in a tiny-ass Italian town? Yeah right." Stan glared as he stood. “You’re unbelievable. You’ve crossed so many lines. And you know what? No interview. None. Ever. Congratulations. You ruined your shot.”

Kyle stared at him, speechless. Then his jaw tightened.

“Fine,” he said coolly and grabbed his shirt off a nearby chair. “I really didn’t plan this, but if that’s what you want to believe, go ahead. Enjoy your Minion life.”

Stan didn’t answer. He just glared.

And Kyle yanked on his clothes, stuffed the rest into his bag, and stormed out of the room without another word. The door clicked shut behind him. His footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Now he was irritated.

Of all the people to drunkenly share a bed with… it just had to be Stan freaking Marsh. Fuck the universe.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the streets of Pesaro when Kyle trudged back to his motel, still in his wrinkled Joker costume. His green wig hung off one ear, and the eyeliner Bianca had so expertly drawn was now a haunted, smeared mess. Tourists gave him double takes as he passed, but Kyle couldn’t care less. His small and stuffy motel room felt like a prison sentence compared to the opulence of the Grand Hotel Kronenhof. He shut the door behind him with a sigh, toed off his shoes, and stood there for a moment in silence. Then he dragged himself into the tiny bathroom and stripped off the costume.

The water took a few minutes to heat up, sputtering and wheezing in the pipes, but eventually it ran hot enough to be bearable. Kyle stood under the stream and let it beat against his skin. His limbs ached from dancing, from drinking, from sleeping in a foreign bed next to a guy who just hours ago had metaphorically, and nearly literally, thrown him out.

He got out eventually, dried off, and sat on the edge of his bed in a towel. With a cocked brow, he eyed the sad little sandwich he’d picked up from a vending machine in the motel lobby. It was soggy, mostly bread, and tasted like trash. He ate it anyway.

His phone vibrated.

Bebe.

Kyle saw her name flash on the screen, but he didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t care, but because… well, what could he even say? He didn’t want to relive the awkwardness, the tension, or the strange, electric look in Stan’s eyes when they’d realized who they’d been sleeping beside. It had been the first time he’d ever seen Stan up close. And not the “Stan Marsh” from ten seasons of Making It With The Marshs, not the perfectly lit teen heartthrob America watched grow up. This had been a tired, grouchy, paint-smeared twenty-three-year-old who cursed too much and handed out accusations like candy.

Kyle realized with a kind of hollow thud: I never actually knew him at all.

Just as he set his phone down, a message notification popped up.

ClarkKent11 sent you a photo.

He tapped it open.

A picture of a DVD case. Sleepless in Seattle.

Except the word Seattle was clumsily crossed out in thick permanent marker. Scrawled beneath it in bold, slightly crooked letters: Pesaro.

Kyle stared at the image, then grinned despite himself.

He texted back.

A typing bubble appeared.

Kyle hesitated for a beat. Then he sent up a thumbs up emoji.

They agreed on a quiet stretch of coastline near the port. The sky already turned soft shades of lavender and amber as the sun started dipping toward the horizon. When Kyle arrived, Stan was already there, sitting on a rock with two paper coffee cups beside him. He looked far more human now, no yellow makeup, no overalls. Just jeans, a plain gray hoodie, and a cautious expression.

“Hey,” Stan said and held out one of the cups.

“Hey.” Kyle accepted it. “Thanks. This is… surprisingly thoughtful.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Stan muttered, then gestured for Kyle to sit.

They sat in silence for a few sips. The breeze carried the distant scent of salt and espresso.

“I overreacted,” Stan said finally. “You didn’t plan that. I get it now.”

“I didn’t,” Kyle replied, eyes on the waves. “It was just... insane luck.”

“Insane, yeah. That’s one word for it.” Stan huffed a bitter laugh. 

Kyle looked over. “So what made you want to talk?”

Stan bit his lower lip, then said, “It’s kind of a long story. But I figured… if I don’t tell someone, I’ll just keep choking on it.”

“I’m listening.”

So Stan took a breath before he talked. “Wendy and I started dating when we were fifteen. Or—well, pretending to date. It was my dad’s idea. Said it would help ratings if I had a cute, sweet love interest. Young viewers eat that stuff up.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. She was just a normal girl, showed up on set for a soda ad we were shooting. Randy saw potential and threw her into the spotlight. And… it worked. People loved us.”

“Even though it was fake?”

“At first,” Stan said, voice quieter now. “But then it got real. At least for me. I think for her too. It wasn’t all staged. We had actual moments, real feelings. But the problem was we didn’t own our story. Randy did.”

Kyle listened as the pieces of the puzzle slid into place.

Stan continued, “Eventually my dad decided we didn’t have enough chemistry on camera. Said the spark was gone. So he pulled strings. Told Wendy he’d use his contacts to get her cast in some big Netflix project if she broke things off. Officially, she dumped me. Unofficially, she crushed me.”

“…Wow.”

“She used to be down-to-earth,” Stan muttered. “Funny. Kind. And then… she saw what fame could get her. She made a deal. And as if it wasn't enough to crush my heart, Randy realized his mistake. While he and the showrunners of Making It With The Marshs didn't see the spark between Wendy and me, the viewership did. They wanted Stendy back and made their opinion known, offline as well as online. So Randy talked to Wendy, convinced her to seduce me even though she's already dating another dude publicly. Only a couple of weeks ago, before I left, she tried to hook up with me. I may have feelings for her, but I was still disgusted by her behavior and turned her down. She then confessed to me that it was all my dad's idea, that he'd get her cast in a highly successful CW show if she got me back. I don’t blame her, not really. But it broke something in me.”

Kyle said nothing. Just let the silence linger.

“So when I saw you this morning, standing there like some smug tabloid writer with answers in your pocket and questions in your eyes… I don’t know. It just reminded me of that. Of losing something real because someone wanted a story.”

Kyle exhaled. “That wasn’t fair. I’m not Randy Marsh. Or Wendy, for that matter.”

“I know.” Stan paused, then added, “And for what it’s worth, only my two buddies knew I was going to that party. No one else. You showing up really was just the universe being a dick.”

Kyle chuckled. “It usually is.”

They sipped their lattes quietly, but the tension loosened like sun-warmed rope.

“You still want an interview?” Stan asked, not quite looking at him.

Kyle stared out into the waves, then smiled faintly. “I want a conversation. The story can wait.”

Stan glanced sideways, a flicker of something-relief, maybe?—in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “Then let’s talk.”

The waves crashed gently in the distance, and for a moment, the silence between Stan and Kyle had felt almost peaceful. Just two guys sitting on a rock, finally cracking open the truths that had sat like anvils on their chests. But before Kyle could answer to Stan’s quiet offer to talk, his phone buzzed sharply on the rock beside him.

Kyle glanced down.

DAD.

Again.

The same name that had lit up his phone screen at least a dozen times in the past few days. Missed calls. Voicemails he hadn’t listened to. Now, no longer ignorable.

“Sorry,” he muttered to Stan and stood. “I need to take this.”

Stan nodded, sipping from his cup, but his eyes followed Kyle with an alertness that suggested he was already reading the tension in his shoulders.

Kyle stepped away and turned his back to the sea.

He picked up. “Hello?”

“Kyle! Finally!” his father’s voice bellowed through the speaker. “What the hell are you doing in Italy?”

Kyle winced and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I’m chasing a story, dad.”

“A story?” The word dripped with disdain. “You mean gallivanting across the world to play paparazzi for some trash rag I didn’t even know you worked for?”

Kyle clenched his jaw. “It’s not... okay, yes, it’s not The Atlantic, but it’s still my work. I’m doing what I came out of college to do.”

“You told your mother and me you were freelancing for a respected publication. I find out online that my oldest son is writing for Mile High Scoop, of all things? You lied to us.”

“I had to lie,” Kyle snapped. “You never would’ve let me go if I told you the truth.”

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t have!” Gerald shot back. “This is exactly why I said journalism was a dead-end degree. You should’ve gone to Harvard Law. I could’ve guaranteed you a spot, like your grandfather, like me.”

“And like someone I never wanted to be,” Kyle growled. “How many times do I have to say it, dad? I hate law. I told you for years. Years.”

Gerald was quiet for a beat. Then, quietly but cuttingly: “I expected more from you, Kyle.”

That was the final blow. The one that drove the breath right out of Kyle’s lungs.

“I’m hanging up now,” he said, voice trembling. “Goodbye.”

He hit the red button and stared at his reflection in the dark screen. His hands were shaking. His whole chest burned with something: rage, humiliation, the ache of disappointment echoing through him like a punch to the ribs.

He turned to walk back toward Stan, trying to school his face into something less raw, but he couldn’t hide the way his hands balled into fists. His feet hit the gravel too hard. His breath hitched.

Stan stood. “You okay?”

Kyle didn’t answer. He stalked toward the wooden fence near the edge of the lookout, raised his fist with a furious grunt—

“Hey.” Stan was there in a flash and grabbed his wrist mid-swing. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”

Kyle turned his face away and blinked furiously.

“I’m so, so sick of this,” he rasped. “Of never being enough for him. Of being told I’m a disappointment just because I’m not the legacy son he always wanted.”

Stan didn’t let go. He just took Kyle’s clenched fist and, gently, opened it. Threaded their fingers together.

“I get it,” he said quietly. “I really do.”

Kyle looked at him, eyes bloodshot. “Yeah? And what would Stan Marsh, America’s sweetheart, know about not living up to his dad’s expectations?”

At that, Stan gave him a bitter smile. “You’d be surprised. Randy Marsh didn’t want a son. He wanted a brand.”

They stood there for a moment, fingers still intertwined. Silence stretched between them like a fragile thread.

“Just breathe,” Stan said softly. “You don’t have to carry all that shit alone, y’know?”

Kyle’s lip twitched, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He didn’t cry, though. He just nodded.

And breathed.

“So,” Stan said after a beat. His thumb traced the rim of his cup. “If you still want it… I’ll let you interview me.”

“Wait, seriously?” Kyle blinked. 

Stan gave a faint, crooked smile. “Yeah. You’ve earned it. I mean, tracking me halfway across the world? That’s either madness or dedication. I haven’t decided which.”

Kyle exhaled audibly. “I don’t want your pity, if that’s what this is.”

“It’s not pity,” Stan said firmly. “You worked your ass off. You’re not a tabloid leech… well—” he gave him a playful look, “mostly not.”

And Kyle smirked but looked down. The weight of all this started to settle on his shoulders, slowly but surely.

Stan continued, a little more serious now. “But there’s a condition. When you finish the piece, I get to read it. I get to approve it before it goes out. If I don’t approve it, it doesn’t get published. No deal otherwise.”

Kyle shifted uncomfortably. “You want… full editorial control?”

“I want a say,” Stan said simply. “You know what they’ve done to me in the press. I really don’t need more fucked headlines. So yeah, non-negotiable.”

Contemplating, Kyle looked out into the sky for a beat too long.

“…Deal,” he finally muttered and held out his hand.

Stan shook it.

…

Back at the motel later that night, Kyle sat on his creaky mattress and stared at his phone like it might bite him. After a deep sigh, he hit Call.

His boss answered on the third ring. “About time. You’ve been MIA, Broflovski.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Kyle said quickly. “But I’ve got something for you. Big. Stan Marsh.”

There was a stunned silence.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I found him. He’s here in Pesaro. He agreed to let me follow him around. Full access.”

“You’re serious.” Francis actually laughed. “God, you might’ve actually done something useful for once.”

“But,” Kyle added, the word thick in his throat, “he wants final approval before it goes public.”

The line went cold for a second.

“What?”

“It’s non-negotiable,” Kyle said with a wince. “If he doesn’t sign off, the story doesn’t run.”

“No, no, no, hell no!” Francis barked. “The juiciest stories are the ones without consent, Broflovski. You know that. If we start asking for permission, we might as well write PR fluff pieces.”

“I know, but—”

“I don’t care what sob story Stan Marsh feeds you. You dig. You find something. There’s always dirt. You want your name on something real? Give me Marsh at his most raw. Not some sugarcoated exclusive he gets to edit.”

Kyle swallowed hard. “So what, you want me to spy on him behind his back?”

“I want you to give me the truth. If it’s ugly, even better. You’ve got a few weeks. Don’t waste ‘em. You disappoint me again, Broflovski? You’re done.”

With that, the call ended. Kyle stared at the phone like it had physically betrayed him.

He sat there for a long moment in the quiet room, surrounded by peeling wallpaper and the faint buzz of the fluorescent light above. His fingers tightened around his battered iPhone.

He had his story.

But now he had to decide what kind of story he was really writing.

…

The modest little apartment smelled faintly of laundry detergent and microwave popcorn. Kyle had expected something flashier for someone like Stan Marsh, even in hiding, but instead he found himself stepping into a home that felt lived-in. Slightly cramped, clean in a forgetful sort of way, and clearly shared by three men who were functional but not fussy.

Craig opened the door and gave Kyle a long, flat look.

“You’re the tabloid intern,” he said, voice deadpan, gaze heavy.

“I prefer journalist with ambition.” Kyle even managed a smirk as he stepped in.

Craig didn’t return it. “Watch your ambition while you’re here. Don’t touch anything. Don’t mess with Stan. And don’t expect coffee, Tweek’s the only one who knows how to make it and he already left.”

At that moment, Stan appeared from down the hall, hair damp, wearing a hoodie too big for him and joggers that hung low on his hips. “Chill, Craig. He’s here for the interview. It’s fine.”

Not convinced at all, Craig glanced at Stan, then back at Kyle. “I still don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to,” Stan said firmly.

Craig exhaled slowly, grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter, and nodded toward the door. “I’m late anyway. Don’t burn the place down. And if you do, at least make sure he’s in it.” He gestured to Kyle.

Then he was gone.

Moments later, Tweek emerged from the bathroom, backpack slung over one shoulder. His messy blond hair was damp too, eyes hidden behind silver-rimmed glasses. He barely acknowledged Kyle.

“College?”

“Yeah,” Tweek answered nervously. “Good luck, Stan.”

Then it was just the two of them.

Stan flopped onto the couch, then grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it loosely. “Sorry. Craig’s protective.”

“Protective is one word,” Kyle muttered. He pulled out his phone and his notepad. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

They started slow. Kyle asked about Making It with the Marshs: the logistics, the grueling schedule, the pressure.

“It’s… constant,” Stan admitted and rubbed his eye. “If we’re not filming, we’re planning for filming. What we eat. What we wear. What we do. Dad’s big on control. Even our arguments are half-staged.”

“Do you ever get a break?”

“Not really. I mean, I did. That’s why I’m here. I snapped.”

Kyle scribbled furiously, but nodded. “And your sister? Shelley?”

Stan’s face tensed instantly.

“No.”

“…No?” Kyle blinked.

“I’m not talking about her.”

The air shifted. Stan didn’t even look angry, just… guarded.

Kyle shut his notebook slowly. “Okay. That’s fair. I won’t push.”

Stan tilted his head, eyebrows raised. “That’s it? No guilt-tripping? No emotional manipulation?”

“I’m not here to gut you, Stan. I want a real story. But not at your expense. Being a journalist with integrity still matters to me.”

Stan studied him for a beat. “You’re just a paid intern.”

“Yet,” Kyle grinned. 

That pulled a laugh out of Stan, short and surprised.

They kept talking. Kyle asked questions about Stan’s childhood, favorite moments from the show, what he missed most now that he was off the grid. Stan opened up more easily than expected. His voice was animated when he talked about the family dog Sparky they had when he was ten, or the first time he met Wendy even though his gaze darkened a little after that.

But somewhere in the middle of it all, the questions slowed. The distance between them on the couch seemed to shorten without either of them noticing. The way Kyle’s eyes lingered when Stan laughed. The way Stan’s gaze dropped to Kyle’s mouth mid-sentence, just for a second too long.

And then the quiet came, charged and intimate.

“Do you always look at people like that when you interview them?” Stan asked teasingly.

“Only when they look back like that,” Kyle said, matching the tone, mouth twitching into a small, dangerous smile.

Stan opened his mouth, maybe to say something witty. Maybe to change the subject.

He didn’t get the chance.

The front door creaked open.

“Jesus Christ,” Craig said flatly from the hallway, “you’re still here?”

Both of them jolted upright like teenagers caught doing something very much not homework.

Craig’s arms were crossed. “It’s been five hours.”

“Has it?” Kyle asked, startled.

Stan looked at the clock. “Huh. Guess we got carried away.”

Craig’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between them. “Yeah. I bet you did.” He sighed for what felt like the tenth time that afternoon, flopped down on the armchair, and muttered, “Alright. I’m starving. We ordering or what?”

Tweek, who’d just come home as well and slumped down sideways on the couch with a textbook open across his lap, nudged Craig’s foot with his own. “Don’t be rude.”

Craig groaned and shot a side glance at Kyle, who was perched on the far edge of the couch, still scribbling something into his notepad with casual intensity.

With the enthusiasm of a man volunteering to chew glass, Craig muttered, “You want pasta too, intern?”

Kyle looked up. “Sure. Thanks.”

Stan smirked. “Aww, you’re such a good host.”

Craig flipped him off, then reached for his phone to call the local trattoria they usually ordered from. “You want carbonara, babe?”

“Always.”

“Stan?”

“Surprise me.”

Craig grumbled, “So basically get the same thing again,” and completed the call.

The food arrived not long after, steaming plastic containers filled with spaghetti, rigatoni, and creamy tagliatelle that made even the air taste better. The four of them gathered around the cluttered coffee table, each with a fork in hand and absolutely zero sense of portion control.

Kyle took his first bite and moaned loudly. “Okay. This? Better than anything I’ve had in the States.”

Craig just raised an eyebrow. “It’s Italy.”

Tweek nodded, mouth full. “You can’t go back to boxed pasta after this. It’s impossible.”

In the meantime, Stan twirled his fork lazily and leaned back on the sofa. “So Kyle,” he said through a mouthful of rigatoni. “You still following me around after this?”

Kyle grinned. “Isn’t that your call? I mean… you gonna keep crashing on Craig’s couch forever?”

Stan shrugged and glanced toward the ceiling, as if the answer might be floating somewhere up there. “Honestly? I have no idea. I didn’t plan that far ahead when I left. I just wanted to be gone.”

“Clearly,” Craig muttered under his breath.

Stan threw him a half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then Craig wiped his mouth with a paper towel and leaned back, one arm draped over the chair. “You do remember Shelley’s big party in London, right?”

Stan blinked, as if someone had just reminded him he had an exam tomorrow. “Oh crap. That’s still happening?”

“Big time,” Craig said. “Your dad’s banking on it. The launch of Making It with the Marshs: Euro Edition or whatever the fuck they’re calling it.”

Kyle sat up straighter. “Wait—what?”

“Shelley’s twenty-seventh,” Tweek supplied nervously and tossed a stray basil leaf off his plate. “Randy wants to make it huge. Everyone who’s anyone in Europe’s entertainment scene will be there. Industry heads. Paparazzi. Probably even royalty.”

Stan looked faintly horrified. “I thought I’d be filming. I didn’t think I’d… be free.”

“Well,” Craig said, matter-of-factly, “you are.”

“Shelley’s not even going to be in all the season’s episodes because of that stupid party,” Stan added. “She’s pissed because she hates parties and events, but… Randy insists. He thinks this will make the show explode over here.”

“And she’s going along with it?”

“Yeah, but she’s still mad. Still, she’ll throw the party of the decade. That’s just Shelley.”

Kyle watched Stan closely, noticed how his face softened a little as he talked about her. The way his shoulders eased, even with the tension of everything else. “So… are you gonna go?”

Stan poked at a piece of pasta, considering. “Maybe. I miss her.”

“But wouldn’t that ruin the whole ‘Stan Marsh’s gone missing’ thing?” Craig asked. “You really think you can show up at a massive media-covered event and just walk away afterward like it’s nothing?”

“I'll be careful and probably not show up at that event. But that doesn't mean I cannot drop by to see my sister again,” Stan said quietly, with a finality that shut Craig up for a second. “She may be annoying as fuck most of the time, but we've been through hell together. I miss her.”

The silence that followed hung like a slow, thick fog.

Then Stan glanced over at Kyle. “You up for another road trip?”

Kyle blinked. “To London?”

Stan smiled, small, mischievous. “Why not?”

Kyle let out a low laugh. “Hell yes. I’ve always wanted to drive through an underwater tunnel.”

“You’re all insane,” Craig muttered.

“Agreed,” Tweek said mildly, still chewing. “But at least it’ll be fun to watch.”

Craig shook his head like an exhausted parent, but there was the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when this goes nuclear.”

Stan shrugged. “It probably will.”

Kyle raised his pasta container in salute. “To bad ideas and worse timing.”

Stan clinked his against it, grinning. “Cheers to that.”

…

The two guys left the Italian coastal town the next morning, after Kyle had said goodbye to Tolkien and Bianca, and Stan had promised Tweek and Craig to visit them again soon. Kyle's old car had broken down just after he'd arrived in Pesaro, so he decided to sell it to a small car repair shop that belonged to an elderly nice man. The journey from Pesaro to London was, all things considered, mercifully uneventful. No wrong turns, no blown tires, no screaming fans spotting Stan in a gas station. Just the long, winding roads through northern Italy, across the Alps and into France, with the occasional toll booth and the soft rhythm of the tires on asphalt. Stan kept his identity as low-key as possible, wearing a hoodie pulled low over his eyes and oversized sunglasses that screamed don’t look at me even more than they helped disguise him. Kyle had to bite his cheek more than once not to laugh at how absolutely extra the whole thing was, especially when Stan wore the sunglasses indoors.

“I think you’ve made peace with the fact you’re the least subtle fugitive ever,” Kyle said as Stan fumbled to pay at a roadside café in Switzerland with his hood tugged down over his eyes and his sleeves pulled over his hands.

Stan scowled behind his shades. “Mock me again and I’ll make you drive through Paris at rush hour.”

They’d laughed. And it had felt easy.

That night, somewhere along the German border, they pulled into a dingy little motel nestled between a truck stop and a forest of tall, dark pines. It was raining lightly, casting beads of water on the windshield and dotting the neon Zimmer Frei sign out front.

“Please tell me you booked in advance,” Kyle muttered as they stepped into the lobby. The bell above the door chimed.

“I live in chaos,” Stan answered. “You should know that by now.”

There was only one room left. Two single beds, thank God. Stan paid in cash, again. Kyle didn’t ask where he got it, just grabbed the key from the desk and followed him up the creaking stairs. The room smelled faintly of wood polish and old cigarette smoke, but the beds were clean and separate.

Stan dropped his bag on the closest bed and yanked off his hoodie, then flopped onto his mattress with a sigh so deep it shook the curtains. “Damn, I feel like I’ve been sitting in a coffin all day.”

Kyle cracked open the small fridge and was surprised to find a few dusty bottles of cheap German beer. “Want one?”

Surprised, Stan raised an eyebrow. “Since when do roadside motels come with welcome gifts?”

“Don’t question it.” Kyle already twisted off the cap.

They sat on their respective beds, legs crossed, beer bottles in hand. Their bodies hummed from the hours of stillness and cheap car music. The room smelled faintly of cleaning detergent and something sweetly stale, like someone had once sprayed air freshener over a crime scene.

“So,” Kyle said after a beat, “what’s it like being part of America’s most-watched family?”

Stan snorted. “Soul-sucking. That answer your question?”

Kyle raised his bottle in mock salute. “Elaborate.”

Stan leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. “You know, everyone thinks being a Marsh means glitz and glamour and red carpets and award shows. But as I've told you yesterday: if we’re not filming, we’re planning the next filming. If we’re not planning, we’re training. Nutrition, gym, hair, skin, hell, even my smile has been critiqued by a branding consultant.” He paused, then looked over. “It’s not a life. It’s a role. You’re cast as yourself, and you better not fuck it up.”

Kyle nodded slowly, then took a sip. “I kinda get that. Not the TV stuff, but the whole expectations thing.”

“Yeah?” Stan tilted his head.

“My dad’s Gerald Broflovski. Big-shot lawyer,” Kyle said, rolling his eyes. “His dad was a lawyer. And his dad before him. All Harvard. All proud. All judgmental. And then there’s me, the disappointment who wanted to write. Thought journalism would earn me some respect, but then I didn’t even go into a ‘serious’ firm. So here I am. Writing for a trashy tabloid, stalking Stan Marsh across Europe.”

Stan gave him a look. “At least you stalked with style.”

Kyle chuckled. “Thanks.” He paused for a second before continuing. “My little brother Ike, he’s five years younger. Barely eighteen and already in college. Skipped grades. Genius level IQ. On the fast track to law school. And dad treats him like a golden retriever with a briefcase. And I’m the one who wastes his potential.”

There was a beat of quiet before Stan said, “You know, I always thought my sister didn’t give a damn. She’s got that whole cold, don’t-fucking-mess-with-me thing going on. But... she’s had it rougher than me, in some ways.”

Kyle looked up. “Yeah?”

Stan’s jaw tensed slightly. “You ever notice how people talk about women in the spotlight? With guys, it’s about status and charm and maybe some controversy, even if they're total pieces of shit. With women, it’s always about the body. Always.”

Kyle nodded slowly.

“I’ve heard Shelley cry in the bathroom more times than I can count, late at night when she thought no one was around. And then she’d skip meals. Start drinking disgusting shakes instead of eating. Talk about how her face looked ‘too full’ in some shoot and she needed to get it ‘fixed.’ You think she wanted plastic surgery at twenty-four?”

Kyle swallowed hard, unsure what to say.

“And my mom? Same treatment. The media never stops. And me?” Stan continued bitterly. He let out a scoff. “I’m not even naturally ripped, you know? People think I wake up with abs. I don't. I’ve had to eat clean, like clinically clean, since I was sixteen. Trainers, meal plans, check-ins. Soul-sucking stuff that makes you want to puke, and I did more often than I want to admit. Makes you feel less like a human and more like a… walking brand.”

They sat there in silence for a moment. The air became thick with things unspoken. Their eyes met, really met, and for a second, something shifted. The air grew heavier, closer. A quiet vulnerability passed between them, electric and fragile.

Kyle looked away first and cleared his throat. “You, uh... ever thought about quitting back then?”

“Every single day.” Stan tilted his head back. And then he smiled, tired but honest. “But you know what? Sitting here, with a lukewarm beer, in a shitty motel room halfway to London... this is the most me I’ve felt in a decade. But I bet Randy is seething in our farmhouse in South Park because I ghosted the show mid-season.”

“Sounds like we’re both disappointments in our fathers’ eyes,” Kyle said finally with a sad smile.

Stan raised his bottle again. “To that.”

They clinked bottles, but the moment settled between them like a secret they weren’t quite ready to name.

Chapter Text

London greeted them with moody skies and that oddly specific scent of rain-soaked pavement and bus fumes. The city buzzed with the energy of millions, but the neighborhood Stan drove into was quiet, a leafy, residential stretch of brick townhomes with wrought-iron gates and discreet security cameras. The kind of place where the rich disappeared into their lives without a whisper. Shelley Marsh’s chosen sanctuary.

They pulled up into a quieter neighborhood, lined with rows of brickstone houses that looked straight out of a Jane Austen adaptation. The streets were narrow, hedges trimmed, everything so… reserved. Calm but also hidden.

Kyle craned his neck as they rolled up to the house, an elegant three-story brickstone with ivy crawling up the sides and a tiny, private courtyard out front. “This where she’s laying low?”

Stan nodded. “Yup. Rare for her to get days off. Nobody expects a Marsh in East Finchley. She’s probably living in sweatpants and oat milk lattes until the party.”

“And she still wants to throw a huge event for a billion people?”

“She doesn’t want to,” Stan muttered as he cut the engine. “Dad does. Shelley just wants her dog and some nachos.”

“Relatable,” Kyle chuckled. 

They got out of the car and walked to the house. Stan rang the bell. No paparazzi in sight; Shelley had clearly done a good job keeping this place under wraps. After a beat, the door creaked open.

Shelley Marsh, with hair piled in a lazy bun, sweatpants indeed, and a cropped hoodie that still somehow looked like it belonged on a Vogue spread, blinked in surprise.

“Stan?” Her voice was incredulous. Then, without warning, she launched herself at her little brother and tackled him into a hug that nearly cracked his spine.

“You fucking idiot, you absolute flaming disaster, you stupid turd, I thought you were hiding in a basement in Munich!”

“Hi, Shelley,” Stan wheezed. 

She pulled back just enough to slap his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, you little cryptid?”

“I like surprises.”

That’s when her eyes landed on Kyle. Her smile faltered and her gaze sharpened like a hawk's.

“Is that Kyle Broflovski?” she asked flatly. “The turd who started the cursed #FindStanMarsh thing on the internet?”

Kyle, hands slightly raised like he’d wandered into a lion’s den, gave a cautious smile. “Guilty.”

Shelley stared at him for a long beat. Then turned to Stan. “Why did you bring him here?”

“Because he’s not the enemy,” Stan said simply. “He’s actually been… decent.”

Kyle said nothing, knowing it wasn’t the time to defend himself.

And Shelley folded her arms. She still eyed Kyle like she was calculating the pressure needed to snap his femur.

“Okay,” she sighed eventually, gaze still sharp. “I trust you, Stan. But if this turd so much as breathes wrong around you, I will end him.”

Kyle nodded quickly. “Totally fair.”

He didn’t doubt her for a second. Shelley Marsh was terrifying, even if she was at least four inches shorter than him.

“Come on.” Stan gently tugged Kyle inside. “We’re not gatecrashing, right?”

“Technically,” Shelley muttered, “you are.”

Inside, the living room had a lived-in glamour to it: plush velvet couches, soft lighting, fancy snacks on the coffee table. There were only a handful of people there, but the air was dense with charisma.

First was Kenny McCormick, Stan’s best friend and Randy’s assistant, clean-cut and meticulous even in joggers. Next to him lounged his older brother Kevin, bulkier and broader, the kind of guy you’d cast as a rugby player or an off-duty superhero. And then, curled in the window seat, sipping tea from a cat mug, was Heidi, auburn-haired pop darling with a voice like honey and eyes that missed nothing.

Shelley made the introductions.

“Turds, this is Kyle Broflovski. The tabloid intern.”

Kenny’s polite smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So you’re the dude stalking Stan for a story.”

“Journalist,” Kyle corrected, trying to sound casual.

Kevin just grunted a hello and offered a lazy nod. Heidi, on the other hand, perked up and slid over to offer a warm handshake.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, sweet and sincere. “Love your coat. Very not-Hollywood. That’s a compliment.”

“Thanks,” Kyle said, mildly stunned. “Got it at a thrift store in Jersey.”

“Even better.”

They all sank into casual conversation. Shelley tossed on music low in the background and dug into the snacks: olives, hummus, potato and chickpea chips, and something suspiciously bougie involving truffle oil. Beer bottles were opened and Cider was poured.

Kyle barely touched his.

He sat with one hand wrapped around the bottle but didn’t drink. Instead he offered the occasional comment, asked a question here and there, but mostly kept quiet. Stan watched him from across the room, sipping his beer. He could tell Kyle was holding back, and he wasn’t sure if it was because Shelley had low-key threatened to chop of his dick or because he was surrounded by celebrities who, for better or worse, dominated headlines and stage lights.

And maybe it was a little bit of both. Kyle wasn’t chatty Kyle. Not the guy who could go on about bad motel wallpaper for ten minutes straight or quote Spotlight from memory just to annoy Stan. He was playing it safe.

Stan leaned closer and nudged his arm gently. “You good?”

Kyle looked over and gave a faint smile. “Yeah. Just trying not to get murdered.”

“They’re just people, you know,” Stan chuckled. 

“Says the guy who used to have a billboard in Times Square.”

“Exactly,” Stan said, elbowing him lightly. “We’re just very tired people.”

Kyle cracked a real grin at that.

The evening floated on in a haze of soft laughter and the quiet clink of glass. The small group lounged in various configurations on Shelley’s oversized couches and beanbags, half-drunk on English wine and the kind of inside jokes that came from years of shared trauma, fame, and survival.

Kevin was recounting some absurd story involving Kenny’s disastrous Tinder date and a malfunctioning espresso machine. Heidi chimed in with little ad-libs, and Shelley barked out the occasional laugh between generous sips of rosé. Kenny, naturally, was defending himself with mock outrage and quiet side-eyes.

Stan was sprawled on the floor, head propped up on a throw pillow, long legs stretched out and a beer dangling from his fingers. He was tipsy, happily buzzed, cheeks flushed and eyes shiny. He hadn’t felt this… light in a long time. Not since before Season Eight, maybe.

So it took him a minute to realize something was… off.

“Kyle?” he asked the room and glanced around. “Hey, where’s Kyle?”

No one knew. Shelley shrugged. Kenny blinked. Heidi, who’d been mid-toast, paused and looked toward the hallway.

“He was just here,” she said.

Stan pushed himself up with a grunt. “I’ll check upstairs.”

First floor: empty. Bathroom door open, no sign of movement.

Second floor: guest rooms and Shelley’s office. Also nothing.

By the time he climbed to the third floor, the drunken haze had thinned just enough for concern to creep in. He paused at one of the slightly ajar doors and nudged it open gently.

There.

Kyle stood in the middle of a quiet bedroom, dimly lit by the streetlamps outside. His back was to the door, shoulders drawn a little tight, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. He was staring out the window like he was waiting for something to make sense.

“Kyle,” Stan said softly.

Kyle didn’t turn. “Hey.”

So Stan stepped inside and closed the door halfway behind him. “Why’d you vanish?”

A beat passed.

Then, Kyle said, “Just needed some air. Clear my head.”

Stan frowned and moved closer. “Are you uncomfortable? Is it the others? Shelley?”

“No.” Kyle finally turned to look at him. “It’s not that. Your friends are cool. Shelley’s… intense, but I get it.”

“... So?”

Kyle’s eyes searched his, uncertain. “Why’d you let me come with you?”

Stan blinked, caught off guard. “You mean, to London?”

“Yeah.”

Confused about the question, Stan scratched the back of his head. “So you can write your story.”

“I have more than enough material. We could’ve parted ways in Pesaro.”

Stan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.

He was tipsy, sure, but not enough to lie.

“…I like having you around.”

Kyle blinked.

Stan stepped a little closer, voice lower now, more vulnerable. “I like talking to you. Even when you’re annoying. Especially when we argue, it’s weirdly fun.” He let out a soft laugh. “I liked it even before you knew who I was. When you were just… that dude who messaged me back and said my memes sucked.”

Kyle didn’t speak for a moment. The silence between them sharpened. And then it stretched, and shimmered, and morphed into something heavier and thicker.

That heat again.

That weird gravitational pull that neither of them could explain away anymore.

They were suddenly too close. Kyle could feel the buzz of Stan’s breath on his lips. Stan swayed slightly, as if ready to move back, but not doing it yet. Not unless Kyle asked.

Kyle didn’t ask.

Instead, his hand came up slowly. He cupped Stan’s jaw gently, like a question, like a maybe. And then he leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t messy or frantic. It was soft, certain, and just a little shaky. Like they were both surprised it was actually happening but too caught up to stop it now.

Stan didn’t pull away. He kissed back. Harder than expected.

And suddenly they were breathing in each other’s space, mouths warm and open and saying everything they’d avoided saying since the moment they first met in their cursed Halloween costumes.

It was dizzying. It was terrifying. And it felt, undeniably, absurdly, right.

Stan’s hands slid up Kyle’s hoodie and bunched the fabric near his waist as their mouths moved in sync, tentative at first, then hungrier, bolder. Kyle’s fingers tangled in the back of Stan’s hair and tilted his head just enough to chase the taste of him again. The air between them grew electric, warm, impossibly close. They were breathing each other in like they’d been waiting for this, like the tension between them had always been building toward this exact moment.

Stan pressed Kyle gently against the edge of the bed, and Kyle didn’t resist. His heart pounded as Stan’s hands moved to his hips. His lips trailed down his jaw to his throat in heated, skimming kisses that made Kyle’s breath hitch.

It was messy and hot and so damn real. There were no cameras, no stories, no games.

Just them.

So naturally, that was when the door swung open.

“Kyle, Shelley wants to know if you—”

Kenny stopped mid-sentence.

Kyle and Stan froze, still tangled in each other, caught in the act like two teenagers sneaking around at prom. Kenny stood in the doorway like he’d been punched in the gut. His eyes narrowed at the scene unfolding in front of him.

Stan pulled back first, cheeks flushed, hair mussed. “Kenny...”

“You cannot be serious,” Kenny cut in incredulously. “Him?”

Kyle stepped back from Stan instantly, breath shallow. “Kenny, it's not-”

“No. No, I don’t want to hear it,” Kenny snapped. “Stan, this guy stalked you across the globe. He started that fucking hashtag that made your life hell for weeks. And now you’re hooking up with him?”

“It’s not like that—”

“It looks exactly like that.”

Stan straightened. “Dude, can you just… give us a minute?”

Kenny’s jaw worked like he was chewing rocks. He stared at Stan, visibly betrayed, before scoffing and backing out of the doorway. “Suit yourself,” he said coldly. “Whatever this is, you deal with it.”

The door slammed shut behind him. And that was all it took for the spell to break. Kyle stepped away and shook his head. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled his hoodie down and straightened his shirt like it could fix what had just happened.

“This was a mistake,” he said quickly. “It can’t happen again.”

Stan blinked, still catching his breath. “What? Kyle—”

“No.” Kyle avoided his eyes. “I’m serious. I—this is exactly the kind of mess I told myself I wouldn’t get into. I’m here for a story. You’re the story, Stan.”

“Then why’d you kiss me?”

Kyle looked at him then, and it hurt—hurt—how much was in his eyes. Conflict. Fear. Longing. Shame.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Kyle—”

“No,” Kyle said firmly and stepped back toward the door. “I can’t. I won’t. Whatever just happened, it doesn’t change anything. It can’t.”

Stan moved after him, reaching. “You don’t mean that.”

But Kyle was already opening the door. He didn’t look back as he descended the stairs and returned to the living room, where laughter and low music still filled the air like nothing had changed. He quietly slipped into an empty seat near Heidi and grabbed a handful of chips. He even forced a half-smile when Shelley glanced over.

Stan didn’t follow.

He stayed upstairs, staring at the door Kyle had just walked out of and wondering how the fuck something that felt so right could go so wrong in under five minutes.

…

The next three days in East Finchley passed like a strange fever dream.

Stan barely saw Kyle - well, at least not properly. They were technically under the same roof, sharing meals with Shelley’s inner circle, lounging in the same lush living room, even brushing shoulders in the sprawling hallways of Shelley’s rented brickstone mansion. But Kyle had become a master at slipping away before any real conversation could happen.

Each time Stan tried to catch him alone, Kyle had an excuse at the ready.

“I promised Shelley I’d swing by the venue and help out.”
“I’m catching up with Heidi, she wanted to show me her vocal warm-ups.”
“Kevin said he needed help with drinks.”
“I’m just going out for a walk, needed some air.”

Always polite. Always deflecting.

Stan, for his part, tried to play it cool. But it was getting to him, how careful Kyle had become, how much space he insisted on putting between them since the kiss. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and say, “We’re both adults. What the fuck are we doing?”

But instead, he drove Kenny (who needed to return to his job as Randy’s personal assistant on the set of Making It with the Marshs) to Heathrow on the second morning, just to get out of the house and out of his head.

The car ride was mostly quiet. London’s gray skies misted over the windshield. Kenny didn’t speak much until they were nearing the airport.

“You know,” Kenny said, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “I don’t care what you say, but there’s something between you and that reporter.”

Stan gripped the wheel tighter. “It’s complicated.”

Kenny scoffed. “Yeah, no shit. Just don’t do something dumb, alright? You're still Stan Marsh, star of Making It with the Marshs. You don't get to live in a vacuum. If you fuck this up, people are gonna talk.”

“I’m not doing anything dumb.”

“Good. Then don’t.”

They didn’t hug when they parted. They never did. Kenny just gave him a nod and disappeared into the terminal, leaving Stan with too much silence and too many thoughts.

Back at the mansion, Kyle had gone to the event venue again, an opulent hall on the outskirts of the city being transformed into a glamorous wonderland for Shelley’s upcoming 27th birthday bash, which doubled as a high-profile promotional stunt for Making It with the Marshs. Gold accents and Swarovski chandeliers. Staff buzzing about like bees.

Kyle was clearly out of place in his jeans and rumpled hoodie, but no one minded.

Even Shelley had started thawing.

It had happened slowly. First when Kyle offered to help carry boxes of gift bags into the venue. Then when he helped untangle a big mess of string lights without complaining once. And finally, when he mentioned, offhandedly, “I have this best friend back home, her name's Bebe. She’s a theater kid through and through. Been to dozens of mass auditions but never landed anything.”

Shelley, who’d been adjusting the seating chart with a scowl, barely looked up. “So?”

“So... I thought maybe... if you ever needed someone for a small role or background appearance, she’s talented. I think you’d like her.”

Finally, she looked at him, one brow arched. “You pitching a friend to me now, turd?”

“Not pitching,” he said, hands raised. “Just... suggesting. Bebe would kill me if I didn’t ask.”

Shelley stared at him for a long second before sighing. “Give me her number. We’ll see.”

That was all she said. But Kyle smiled, and Shelley didn't take it back.

After that, things between them grew easier. Shelley was still sharp-tongued and a little terrifying, but she stopped being outright hostile. Even let him sit with her and Heidi one night, when they were going over guest lists.

Heidi, it turned out, was as soft-spoken and kind as she was famous. Kyle had expected diva vibes, but she was more like an introverted camp counselor in designer boots.

“You have the best journalist vibes,” she said at one point, smiling as she poured more wine into Kyle’s glass even though he hadn’t touched the first. “Very... thoughtful. Like, emotionally observant.”

Kyle had laughed awkwardly. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Heidi tilted her head. “Stan talks about you, you know.”

“Does he?” Kyle’s smile faltered. 

“All the time,” she said. “Not, like, gushy or anything. Just... a lot.”

Kyle didn’t know how to answer to that. He excused himself soon after.

That night, he sat on the mansion’s rooftop terrace with his notebook open, staring out at the quiet, foggy cityscape. Below, the lights of London shimmered. Behind him, somewhere inside the house, Stan was probably wondering if Kyle would ever talk to him again.

And Kyle was wondering the same thing.

…

The morning of their departure arrived like an unwelcome guest: too early, too fast, too soon.

The mansion in East Finchley was already humming with low-grade chaos. Assistants were swarming in and out, decorations were being delivered, and Shelley’s voice could be heard barking orders somewhere on the upper floor. Her birthday extravaganza was set to take London by storm tomorrow, and while she tried to hide it, she was stressed out of her mind.

Stan really didn't want to be in the same place as his dad, so he'd decided to leave before Randy arrived in London. He had already packed his bag. Kyle too, though he kept glancing at Stan like he was some unsolvable equation. Three days of avoidance had left things brittle and tense between them, and now they were supposed to hop back into a car together, like nothing happened? Kyle didn’t know where to begin. Or if he even should.

Stan stood by the front door, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, bag slung over his shoulder, quiet and unreadable. Shelley entered the hallway, her clipboard in one hand, iced coffee in the other. She came to a halt when she saw him.

Neither sibling said anything at first.

Then, surprisingly, Shelley set her coffee down, tossed the clipboard to the side, and pulled Stan into a tight, bone-crushing hug.

Stan stiffened, then melted into it.

“Be careful, dumbass,” she muttered into his shoulder. “Don’t do anything that’ll get your face on a tabloid again.”

He let out a half-laugh. “You wound me.”

She pulled back just slightly, hands on his shoulders, her gaze more serious now. “And if something goes sideways... you call me. You hear me?”

“I will.”

She gave Kyle a glance, not warm, but not hostile either, then turned back to her brother. “Don’t keep avoiding dad forever.”

Stan just shrugged.

Shelley didn’t press it. She never did when it came to Randy.

They said their goodbyes. Shelley gave Kyle a tight nod, then turned and disappeared down the hallway again, already barking instructions to someone on her phone.

Outside, the car looked too small for two people with this much unspoken between them. But they both climbed in. Doors were shut and seatbelts clicked. Kyle buckled up last and sneaked a glance at Stan behind his shades.

“So,” Kyle asked tentatively, “where to?”

Stan stared ahead, like the question hadn’t even occurred to him until just now.

“I have no idea,” he admitted, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Just... away.”

Kyle tried for a light tone, even if the air between them still felt heavy. “Okay. Then say the first place that comes to mind.”

There was a pause. Then, with a tiny shrug, Stan said, “Glasgow.”

“Scotland?” Kyle blinked. 

Stan looked at him finally, the faintest flicker of a smile on his lips. “Yeah. They filmed one of the Avengers movies there.”

“That’s a seven-hour drive.”

Unbothered, Stan shrugged again. “Good time to think.”

“You a big Marvel fan?” Kyle asked him.

With a shrug, Stan turned the engine on and let out a humorless chuckle. “I wanted to be. I used to ask for the comics as a kid, Avengers, Spider-Man, even Batman and The Flash. But dad said it was a waste of time. Stan Marsh doesn’t read nerdy comics, he’d say. He learns lines. He poses for cameras.” He gave Kyle a side glance. “I settled for the movies when I had time. Not that there was much of that.”

Kyle stared at him, eyebrows drawn. “Jesus. That’s... sad.”

Stan snorted, then turned the wheel as they rolled out of the driveway. “Tell me about it.”

They drove in silence for a while. The streets of East Finchley passed by in quiet blur. Kyle looked out the window, then back at Stan. The tension hadn’t fully dissolved, but maybe it was starting to crack.

“Hey,” Kyle said after a while, “for the record? You don’t need to be Stan Marsh, heartthrob twenty-four-seven.”

Stan didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, softly, almost too quiet to hear over the sound of the engine, he replied, “I know that when I’m with you.”

And that was the beginning of a very long drive north.

The highway stretched endlessly ahead, a ribbon of grey beneath the moody English sky. Stan had switched on the radio, but it was low, barely a murmur beneath the hum of the car engine and the occasional squeak of windshield wipers brushing away misty drizzle. Kyle sat in the passenger seat, his MacBook open on his lap, fingers dancing across the keys.

He was nearly done with the article. The rough draft was already solid, more than solid, actually. It wasn’t just about Stan anymore, or even the public fascination with the missing Marsh boy. It was about what it meant to be young and suffocated under the weight of fame and expectation. About rebellion and uncertainty and finding some version of yourself outside of what the world demanded. He’d even managed to sit down with Shelley before they left East Finchley. She'd agreed to a short interview under the condition he left out anything overly personal, and not just about Stan. Kenny too, brief and begrudging, had given Kyle a quote about loyalty and how it meant sticking by someone even when the whole damn internet had a magnifying glass on them.

Kyle glanced up now and peered at the road signs.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Stan muttered suddenly and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. His sunglasses were gone, and he looked tired. Not just physically, but bone-deep worn out, like the weight of returning to real life was closing in fast.

“What do you mean?”

“Glasgow,” Stan said. “It’s not exactly a backwater town. I thought I wanted to come here, but—” He gestured vaguely. “It’s gonna be packed. I’ll get recognized in two minutes.”

Kyle closed his laptop and set it carefully aside. “Then we don’t do sightseeing during the day.”

“What?” Stan gave him a quick, puzzled glance. 

“We do it at night,” Kyle said, matter-of-fact. “You know. Moonlit streets, empty parks, bad lighting for the paparazzi. We’ll dodge the crowds. Like... tourism after hours.”

Stan was quiet for a beat, then huffed a small laugh. “That’s... actually kinda brilliant.”

“Thanks," smirked Kyle. "It’s what I do.”

And Stan grinned wider, the first real one Kyle had seen all day. “I feel like Batman now.”

“You wish you were that cool.”

“Hey, Batman’s traumatized and emotionally repressed. That’s practically my brand.”

Kyle laughed, warm and genuine, and the tension in the car lifted just a little. Stan’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel.

After a while, Kyle reopened his laptop. “I think I’m almost done with the piece,” he said, “Just need to wrap the ending.”

Stan glanced over. “You gonna make me look good?”

“That depends on whether you want the truth or a PR spin.”

“God, don’t give me PR. That’s all I ever get.”

A comfortable silence settled in again until Kyle, looking at the screen without really seeing it, said thoughtfully, “So what’s your plan after this?”

Stan didn’t answer right away.

“I mean,” Kyle added, “is this the long game? Just... running from yourself until it gets too exhausting?”

That did it.

Stan’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “Wow. Deep cut,” he muttered. “You should ask yourself that sometime.”

Kyle turned to him with narrowing eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Stan’s voice was sharper now, not loud but slicing clean. “You’re out here psychoanalyzing me, but you can’t even say the word ‘dad’ without flinching.”

“That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” Stan said, still looking straight ahead. “You left without telling him. You don’t answer his calls. And the second someone brings up Gerald Broflovski, you deflect.”

Kyle’s shoulders tensed. “This isn’t the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Stan fired back. “We’re both running. Only difference is, your old man wants you in court, mine wants me in Calvin Klein ads.”

Kyle stared at him, then looked away, out the window at the blurred stretch of green countryside rolling past. The mood in the car shifted again, brittle and quiet.

Stan sighed after a long beat, voice softer now. “Look, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“No, you meant it,” Kyle said, more resigned than angry. “You’re not wrong.”

They lapsed into silence again. But this time, it wasn’t cold. Just... honest.

Kyle closed his laptop and leaned his head back against the seat and watched the gray clouds roll across the sky. “Glasgow at night, huh?”

Stan gave a faint smile, hands steady on the wheel. “Let’s be Batman and Nightwing. Deal?”

Kyle chuckled, despite himself. “You think I’m Nightwing?”

“I mean, you’re taller. And sarcastic. So yeah.”

“I’ll take it.”

The motel they ended up in wasn’t much to write home about. Peeling pastel wallpaper, bright overhead light, the faint hum of distant highway traffic. They’d left London far too late, underestimating just how ruthless weekend traffic could be. By the time they hit the outskirts of Birmingham, they were both cranky, stiff from sitting, and too tired to even argue about whether to keep driving.

Two rooms again. Thankfully.

Stan stood outside Kyle’s door for a few beats with a plastic bag in one hand, hesitating. The fight earlier still clung to him like cigarette smoke, lingering and acrid. He hated ending things like that. And while neither of them had brought it up again, the air between them had been weird ever since.

So he brought a peace offering. Chocolate bars. He’d stared at the vending machine for a full minute before deciding, then bought one Lion and one Toffee Crisp.

A knock. Then silence.

Kyle opened the door, wearing an old hoodie and sweatpants, his red hair tousled from lying down. There were purple shadows under his eyes, but they lifted slightly when he saw Stan.

“I come bearing sugar and apologies.” Stan held up the two bars like offerings to a king.

Intrigued, Kyle stared for a second, then quirked a tired smile. “Is that a Lion bar?”

“I figured you’d pick that one.”

“You figured right.” Kyle took it without hesitation and stepped aside to let him in. “I’m watching The Hour. You ever seen it?”

“Nope,” Stan said, flopping onto the bed as Kyle returned and propped the laptop back on his lap.

“You’re missing out. Two seasons of absolute brilliance. Criminally underrated,” Kyle said as the theme music started playing.

Stan unwrapped his Toffee Crisp and leaned back as he kicked off his shoes. “What’s it about?”

“Newsroom in the 50s. Journalists with real integrity. Spies, politics, complicated characters. Romola Garai is a goddess.” He glanced at Stan. “It’s the kind of show that makes you want to be better at what you do.”

They munched on their chocolate bars as the episode played. Kyle occasionally paused to comment on certain lines of dialogue, or to explain background plot points. Stan surprisingly got into it. There was something about the tension between the characters that mirrored real life a bit too well. Especially with the unspoken feelings and all the things people wanted to say but didn’t.

Halfway through the third episode, Stan spoke up. “I was kind of a prick in the car, huh?”

Kyle didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah. But I was too.”

Stan turned his head toward him. “Still… I meant what I said. About us both running.”

At that, Kyle sighed and set the half-eaten Lion bar on the nightstand. “It’s easier than standing still sometimes.”

They sat with that for a while and watched the screen flicker with muted light.

“I’m glad you came along,” Stan said, voice softer now.

Kyle looked over at him. “Even after the article?”

“Even because of it.” Stan met his gaze. “You see more than most people. Even when it pisses me off.”

“Yeah, well." Kyle gave a small, lopsided smile. "I’m annoying like that.”

By the fifth episode, Kyle’s eyes were fluttering shut. He tried to keep watching, but the long drive, the chocolate, and the soft lull of the show’s pacing won out. His breathing evened out, and his head tilted to the side.

Stan, still wide awake, gently reached over and slid the laptop away, then placed it on the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching Kyle sleep. He told himself he should leave. That his own room was just across the hall. But the quiet here was… nice. Peaceful in a way that felt rare. He slowly lay back on the bed, eyes still on Kyle for a moment longer before he turned to face the ceiling.

“I’ll go in a bit,” he whispered to no one in particular.

But he didn’t.

Chapter Text

The next morning, with sunlight crawling over the horizon and casting a soft golden glow on the motel’s parking lot, Stan and Kyle were back on the road. The air between them was easier now, not quite back to the playful banter of Pesaro, but not awkward either. Just quiet comfort.

They took turns driving. The plan was to head to Glasgow by nightfall. To make up for lost time, they veered off the main highway to avoid a reported traffic jam near Manchester and took a rural detour, one of those long stretches of road surrounded by rolling hills, stone fences, and grazing sheep.

Kyle sat in the passenger seat, one foot propped on the dashboard. His phone lit up in his hand.

“Oh my God,” he mumbled.

Stan glanced at him. “What? What’s up?”

“It’s Bebe,” Kyle said, eyes wide. “Shelley actually followed through. She forwarded Bebe’s portfolio to her casting contact, and apparently the agency called Bebe just now. She might be going to an audition for a period drama in L.A. next month.” He turned to Stan, excited now. “She’s freaking out.”

“That’s awesome. I mean, Shelley doesn’t just do things halfway.”

Kyle kept scrolling when a new text arrived.

“She also, uh—Bebe—she found out about the kiss,” he added under his breath.

Stan raised a brow. “And?”

“And she’s flabbergasted. Her words. Apparently kissing Stan freaking Marsh is equivalent to touching a holy relic.” He smirked. “Her words again.”

At that, Stan laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered. “I don’t know if I should be honored or scared.”

The laughter died down just in time for the car to make a weird clunking sound, followed by an ominous sputter. The dashboard lights blinked once, then faded. The engine coughed. And then, silence. Stan steered the car to a shaky stop on the side of the narrow, empty road. The sheep didn’t even seem to notice.

“Wait,” Stan said, checking the dashboard again. “Don’t tell me...”

“You forgot to fill the tank,” Kyle groaned.

“I thought you were gonna—”

“I don’t drive your car!”

They both scrambled for their phones and checked offline Google Maps. The closest gas station was seven miles away. And closed until two in the afternoon. It was almost noon now.

Kyle’s breathing quickened. “Okay. No signal, no gas, nothing but sheep and this stupid car and... God, what if it rains? What if we get stranded and have to eat wild mushrooms to survive?”

“Pretty sure the nearest danger is tripping over a rock,” Stan snorted. 

“This isn’t funny, dude! We’re in the middle of nowhere. This is bad.”

Stan leaned back against the seat and folded his arms behind his head. “Okay, so you don’t like when things don’t go according to plan.”

“What?”

“You’re spiraling.” Stan glanced at him. “Because this isn't part of the neat little route in your head. Am I wrong?”

Flustered, Kyle sat back and clenched his fists. “...No. You're not wrong.”

A few more beats of silence passed before Stan said, more quietly this time, “So, what are we doing?”

Kyle turned to him slowly, warily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stan continued, gesturing between them, “your article is done. You finished that days ago. You did your interviews. Your editor probably wants it already. We could’ve said goodbye in London. But we didn’t. And now we’re here, burning daylight in the middle of British farmland -and for what?”

When he heard those words, Kyle stiffened. Because Stan had a point. “Right. I guess you’re right. There’s no reason anymore.” He got out of the car, stepped into the gravel, and brushed off his jeans. “Soon as the roadside service shows up, just bring me to the nearest bus station, or a train. Whatever. You won’t hear from me again.”

Stan threw his hands up and scrambled out after him. “That’s not what I meant!”

Frustration bubbling over, Kyle spun to face him. “Then what the hell did you mean, Stan?”

“I meant,” Stan emphasized, “that we’re still here because neither of us wants to leave. You don’t want to go, and I sure as hell don’t want to let you.”

Kyle blinked. His expression softened as anger melted into something else. Something almost scared. And then something cracked. Something that had been building between them since Pesaro. Since the stolen glances. Since the kiss in London. Since everything.

The next moment happened too fast and too slow all at once.

Kyle stepped forward. Stan did too.

They met halfway as lips crashed together beside the hood of their car. It wasn’t a soft kiss, it was messy, real, full of all the confusion and tension that had been pressing on both of them for days. Kyle’s hand fisted the front of Stan’s jacket, and Stan’s fingers curled into Kyle’s hair, grounding himself.

Just them, the old car, the open sky, and a few sheep loudly judging them in the distance when they started undressing each other on the backseat of the old Citroën.

...

The stars had long since claimed the Glasgow sky. Midnight came and went, but the streets were still and quiet. Two particular guys pedaled side by side on rented city bikes. Their wheels hummed against the pavement as they rode down empty lanes and through alleyways painted in the soft glimmer of streetlights. The cool night air rushed against Stan’s face and tugged at his coat, making his eyes water slightly. Not from emotion, at least not at first. The wind carried the scent of old stone, distant rain, and a bit of fried food from a late-night chippy still cleaning up. Glasgow was asleep, and it was theirs now. Just theirs.

They weren’t following any particular route. Every so often Kyle would yell, “Left!” or “Shortcut!” and Stan would laugh and follow him, sometimes groaning when it led them into a cobbled mess or a tiny bridge. Then Stan would speed up just to overtake him, and the game would start again. They’d race for no reason, whooping and yelling, tires screeching around corners, nearly crashing into bollards or lampposts.

“Eat my dust, Broflovski!” Stan shouted once and threw a smug glance over his shoulder.

“Not with those wobbly legs, Marsh!” Kyle shot back, out of breath but grinning like an idiot.

They stopped by the River Clyde eventually. The bikes clicked and wheezed beneath them as they stood still. The silvery water of the river reflected the bridge’s golden lights. The water moved slowly, gently, as if even it was content to just exist in this peaceful sliver of night.

Stan leaned on the handlebars and glanced sideways at Kyle, who’d removed his hoodie and was fanning himself with one hand, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard. His red hair was a mess, the good kind of mess, the kind that made Stan’s heart beat faster for reasons he didn’t want to analyze too closely.

“You good?” Kyle asked, looking over, still slightly breathless.

“Yeah,” Stan said softly. “Yeah, I’m good.”

They stood there for a long moment and let silence stretch comfortably between them. Occasionally a car passed on a far-off bridge or a gull screeched somewhere overhead, but it was like they existed in their own little pocket of the world. Just them and the night. Stan turned his head and studied Kyle again, his profile illuminated by the warm river lights, the slight glint of sweat on his temple, the quiet curve of his smile as he looked out over the water like he was trying to memorize it. Stan’s chest ached. Not a sharp pain, but something softer. Something deeper, like being full.

He’d been acting like this was all temporary. Like it was just a weird, beautiful detour in the middle of his unraveling life. But here he was. Riding through Glasgow in the middle of the night with a guy he once thought he hated. Laughing until his ribs hurt. Looking at him like he was the only real thing in the world.

Stan had been in fake relationships before, even after he and Wendy broke up. Had kissed pretty co-stars under flashing cameras, flirted for the fans, been half of a heartthrob couple carefully manufactured by publicists. And none of it had ever felt like this. Not even close.

He realized it with startling clarity.

He was falling for Kyle Broflovski.

No, scratch that. He already had.

It snuck up on him in quiet moments like this, between adrenaline and calm, when Kyle smiled like that or talked about his little brother or let his guard down just enough to let Stan in.

Stan looked away quickly and tried to breathe through it. He didn’t want to say it. Not now, not yet. He didn’t want to ruin the perfection of the moment with something too big, too scary. He just wanted to ride bikes with Kyle and pretend the world was this simple forever.

“You ever feel like,” Stan said after a while, still looking at the water, “you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be?”

Kyle tilted his head, puzzled. “I guess? Why?”

Stan smiled faintly. “No reason.”

And with that, he pushed off the curb and pedaled forward again, then glanced back with a smirk. “Race you to the university gates!”

Kyle rolled his eyes, grinning. “You’re on!”

And off they went again, two shadows racing through a sleeping city, laughing like boys who didn’t have the weight of the world on their shoulders, like they were falling into something good and weren’t quite afraid of it yet.

Fifteen minutes later, the bikes were leaned against a streetlamp. They sat on a low stone wall near a tiny food truck that was somehow still open, manned by a sleepy-eyed guy with earbuds in and a soft spot for late night wanderers. The scent of grilled meat and toasted flatbread filled the air, mingling with the faint brine from the river behind them.

Stan tore into his chicken gyro like he hadn’t eaten in days, fingers sticky with tzatziki and hot sauce, and grease glinting on his lips in the streetlight. “This is fucking awesome,” he muttered through a full mouth, utterly unbothered by how feral he looked.

“It’s literally just chicken, bread, and sauce,” Kyle laughed and wiped his own fingers on a napkin. 

“Exactly,” Stan mumbled as he chewed happily. “That’s what makes it genius.”

Kyle took a slower bite of his own gyro. His eyes darted between Stan and the empty street beyond them. The city was mostly asleep, save for the occasional drunk student in the distance and a couple walking hand in hand beneath the yellow glow of a corner lamppost. The quiet was unreal. No cameras. No shouting fans. No deadlines. Just… now.

Stan let out a small sigh and leaned back on his elbows, gyro resting on his lap. “You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“I can breathe here.”

Kyle turned to look at him. “You mean, like, metaphorically or—”

“No, yeah. Like metaphorically.” Stan gave a soft chuckle. “Though also literally, ‘cause the air doesn’t smell like fake tan and paparazzi sweat.”

“Must be nice.”

“It’s insane.” Stan's eyes flicked toward the sky. “I can eat whatever the fuck I want. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s counting carbs or judging my plate. It’s not even about the food, really. It’s just… freedom. I forgot what it tastes like.”

Kyle’s chest squeezed at that. He reached over and thumbed a smudge of sauce from Stan’s cheek. “You’ve got tzatziki on your face, Batman.”

Stan leaned into the touch. “I like when you call me that.”

“Yeah?” Kyle whispered, smiling.

“Yeah.”

Kyle kissed him. Not in the heat of the moment, not like the last time in the car. This one was slow and unrushed. A promise wrapped in softness. He rested his hand on Stan’s thigh and grounded them both as the city disappeared around them.

When they pulled apart, Stan exhaled again, smiling lazily. “You really do suck at this whole 'avoiding me’ thing.”

“Don’t remind me,” Kyle snorted. 

They fell into quiet again and watched the steam rise from their food. Stan nibbled at the end of his gyro. He was already full but unwilling to give up on the taste just yet. Kyle, on the other hand, stared out at the horizon, the glow of far-off buildings blurred in the distance. He let himself savor it. The way Stan’s leg pressed against his. The laughter still lingering from their bike race. The way Stan had kissed him earlier, like it meant something. It probably did.

Kyle knew what was waiting for him back home. Denver. His shoebox apartment with Bebe, where the heater never worked quite right. The long, passive-aggressive notes from Francis about missed calls. The cold, sterile office of Mile High Scoop, where the air always smelled like burnt coffee and sweat. Francis would want the article by the end of the week. It was nearly done. And it wasn’t the hit piece Francis expected.

He’d come away with something deeper than he anticipated. It was still a story, yeah, but not the one that would sell for blood. Kyle was threading the needle. And maybe that was naive. Maybe it was delusional to think he could keep both his job and Stan’s trust.

But he didn’t want to think about that right now.

He looked at Stan, who was grinning and chewing on the last bite of pita like it was made of gold—and allowed himself to live in the moment. Just for tonight. Because tonight, they weren’t a runaway heartthrob and a burnt-out journalist. They were two guys sharing food at midnight, trading kisses like secrets, breathing air that tasted like freedom.

Kyle leaned in again, just to kiss Stan one more time. Just because he could.

…

The days in Glasgow passed like dream sequences. They blurred together with laughter, warmth, and the kind of quiet intimacy that only grows when two guys fall into step with each other’s rhythm.

By day, the world was still. Stan stayed holed up in their modest motel room, wrapped in thick blankets and binging old shows he never had time to watch before: Peaky Blinders, The Great British Bake Off, and even some anime that Kyle had offhandedly recommended once and then sheepishly denied ever liking. The TV flickered, the sun streamed lazily through the half-drawn blinds, and Stan felt something resembling peace in the simplicity of it.

Meanwhile, Kyle made the ten-minute walk every morning to a small indie coffeeshop with mismatched chairs. The smell of cinnamon and espresso lingered in the air, and a barista always played obscure folk music. He sat there for hours, hunched over his MacBook, editing and re-editing the article until it felt just right. Shelley’s surprisingly candid quotes, Kenny’s protective edge, as well as Stan’s quiet heartbreak, layered beneath his wit and smile. It was more than a story now. It was his story. A window into a real person that the public had only ever seen through flashbulbs and glossy headlines.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the stone buildings, Kyle would return to the motel with food. Greasy chili cheese fries and burgers one day, colorful pokébowls the next, depending on what Stan was craving. And Stan, for once in his life, was allowed to crave. He’d greet Kyle with messy hair and sleepy eyes, then slide over on the bed so they could eat side by side.

They rode their bikes again every night, zigzagged down cobbled streets, laughed breathlessly as they raced past old pubs and darkened cathedrals, sometimes so close they brushed shoulders. At stoplights or beneath dim lamplight, they’d make out like the world wasn’t watching because it wasn’t. Not here. Not in the quiet folds of Glasgow at night.

On the third day, just after they'd finished sharing a container of sweet potato fries and Kyle had opened his laptop again for some final tweaks, Stan sat up and said, “You know, I love Glasgow at night. It’s perfect. But I wanna see it during the day too.”

Kyle looked up, surprised. “Really?”

Stan shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t wanna hide anymore. Not all the time, at least. I'm tired of being afraid.”

With that, Kyle closed his laptop with a quiet click. “Then let’s go for it. It’s time to stop running, Stan.”

The next day, just after noon, they stepped out into daylight together. Kyle wore sunglasses, mostly for the aesthetic, while Stan, after a few minutes of panicked pacing in the motel bathroom, did the same. A simple hoodie, jeans, a baseball cap low over his eyes.

They strolled down Buchanan Street and stopped to listen to a street violinist playing something haunting and beautiful. They wandered through second-hand bookstores, flipped through vinyls in a dusty record shop. Stan laughed easily, his hands in his pockets, his voice clear and unguarded as he cracked a joke about one of the mannequins in a shop window looking like his dad’s stiff red carpet pose.

They got ice cream. They kissed beneath the grey overcast sky, right there on a crowded sidewalk, because for once, Stan wanted to live.

But sadly, the moment didn’t last.

It started with a girl pointing. Then a guy pulling out his phone. Then another. And another. Suddenly whispers-shouts filled the air like static.

“Is that Stan Marsh?”

“Oh my god, it is!”

“Take a picture!”

Click. Flash. Click. A phone camera shoved in Stan’s direction.

Stan’s shoulders tensed. His smile vanished. Kyle noticed instantly and grabbed his hand.

“Come on.”

They ducked into the first alley they could find and weaved through narrow brick corridors and metal bins. Stan’s breathing was tight and quick. Kyle glanced back to see a couple of fans trying to follow, but they gave up after a while.

Finally, they stopped, hidden behind an old iron staircase.

Stan leaned back against the wall, eyes shut, fists clenched. “Fuck.”

“Hey.” Kyle stepped in front of him and squeezed his shoulders. “Hey. You’re okay. We’re out of sight.”

Stan opened his eyes and looked at him, breathless. “I forgot what it felt like… when they see me.”

“You were brave today,” Kyle assured him. “You didn’t hide.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out.” Stan gave a bitter laugh and ran his fingers through his buzzcut. His hair had started to grow out again.

But Kyle shook his head. “You didn’t hide, and you lived. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”

Stan didn’t answer right away. But slowly, his breathing evened. His hand found Kyle’s again and held tight. “I’d still do it again,” he murmured.

Kyle smiled, thumb brushing Stan’s knuckles. “Me too.”

...

The motel room was quiet when Stan returned. The sound of the door clicking shut echoed a little too loudly in the stillness. He peeled off his hoodie and baseball cap and tossed them on the chair by the tiny desk. The blinds were half-open and cast strips of hazy afternoon light across the bedspread. He flopped down, arms spread wide, and let out a long sigh that was part frustration, part exhaustion. The rush of adrenaline from being recognized was finally fading, leaving behind that old, too-familiar sensation of being on edge. Of looking over his shoulder. He hated it so much, hated that a few snapped photos could yank him out of his little bubble of happiness.

Kyle had said he needed to grab something and had taken off on foot with barely an explanation. Stan hadn’t questioned it. Maybe Kyle just needed space. Maybe he was tired of the whole fucked thing already. The thought left an uncomfortable knot in Stan’s chest.

He closed his eyes and dozed off for a bit. The hum of a nearby fridge was soothing, like white noise.

When the door creaked open a while later, Stan blinked awake and rubbed his eyes. Kyle stepped inside, cheeks a little pink from the wind, a paper bag cradled carefully in his arms like it was something fragile.

Stan sat up. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Kyle shut the door with his foot. “I, um… I got you something.”

Caught off guard, Stan blinked again. “Me?”

Kyle nodded and handed him the bag.

It crinkled as Stan opened it and peered inside. 

Comics.

Stacks of them. Mostly Superman, some Justice League, and a few Batman issues tucked in the back. All in protective sleeves. All carefully chosen. The glossy covers shone in the dim light.

“I went to this comic book shop a few streets over,” Kyle said, hands shoved in his coat pockets now, suddenly a little sheepish. “Told the guy working there I had a friend who’d never read any but always wanted to, and he helped me put together a good starter set. Said these were classics. Said you can’t go wrong with All-Star Superman or For the Man Who Has Everything.”

Stan just stared down at the comics, stunned. His fingers brushed one of the covers like it might disappear if he touched it too quickly.

“You remembered,” he said quietly.

Kyle shrugged like it was no big deal. “You told me, back in the car. How Randy never let you read this stuff. Said it wasn’t for you. That you had to be some polished heartthrob instead of an ordinary kid who liked capes and aliens.”

Stan looked up at him slowly, eyes wide and soft. “Kyle…”

“So I figured…” Kyle cleared his throat and gave a half-smile. “It’s about time you got to catch up on everything you missed.”

Touched by the gesture, Stan swallowed hard. He couldn’t find words at first. No one had ever done something like this for him. Not Shelley, not Kenny, not his mother, certainly not his dad. No one had paid attention in this way. No one had seen him—really seen him—and then gone out of their way just to give him something for the simple joy of it.

Something that said, I care. I was listening. You deserve this.

He set the bag down gently on the bed and stood, then crossed the room in two steps to wrap his arms around Kyle.

“Thank you,” Stan said, voice muffled against Kyle’s neck. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

Kyle hugged him back just as tightly. “I think I do.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, just holding each other in the quiet room, surrounded by sunlight and comics and unspoken things that didn’t need to be said just yet.

Eventually, Stan pulled back. His eyes were still shining a little. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

Kyle just smirked. “Yeah, well. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Stan laughed, wiping at the corner of his eye, and motioned toward the bed. “C'mon. I need to know if Superman is really as cool as everyone says he is.”

“You’re in for a ride,” Kyle chuckled as he settled beside him.

They opened the first issue together, shoulders pressed close. And while the pages turned, the rest of the world melted away.

…

The motel room was quiet again except for the steady rhythm of water running in the shower. Steam curled out from beneath the bathroom door, and somewhere in the background, the faint sounds of a Superman cartoon Stan had queued up earlier still murmured from the television.

Kyle sat cross-legged on the bed, flipping idly through one of the comics Stan hadn’t touched yet, trying not to think too hard. About Denver, Francis, or what came next.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand. The screen flashed with Francis. Shit.

He stared at it for a couple of seconds, but he knew he couldn’t avoid the call. Not forever.

With a slow inhale, he swiped to answer and pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Kyle,” Francis said, too chipper, which only made Kyle’s stomach twist harder. “Got a minute?”

Kyle’s voice was careful. “Sure. What’s up?”

There was a pause. Then, with a slight hiss of disapproval, Francis said, “I read the article. The draft you sent.”

Kyle felt it in his gut before Francis even said anything else.

“Look, it’s clean, well-written, and all that,” Francis continued. His tone became sharper with every word. “But it’s boring as hell. Where’s the dirt? Where’s the scandal? You’re giving me Stan Marsh: The Misunderstood Puppy, and I asked you for Stan Marsh: The Unhinged Child Star with Daddy Issues and a Secret Agenda.”

Kyle flinched. “Francis, it’s not that kind of story. He’s been through...”

“—Spare me the violin,” Francis snapped. “No one clicks on ‘a sensitive boy just wants to eat a burger and read comics.’ They click on coke rumors, emotional breakdowns, lover’s quarrels, arrests. You know the drill.”

“But that’s not who Stan is,” Kyle said quietly.

“Well, then he’s not your problem. He’s our subject. And if you want to keep your job, you’re going to give us something real. By next week. Or I’m pulling the plug on your little byline fantasy. No promotion. No letter of recommendation. No nothing.”

Kyle closed his eyes. “Francis, come on...”

“I’ve already got the legal team prepped. Don’t worry about lawsuits. We know how to spin it. You just write the damn thing.”

The line clicked dead. And Kyle sat there, stunned.

The comics on the bed mocked him. The one in his lap slipped to the floor. The sound of water stopped behind the bathroom door.

And Kyle, heart pounding, throat dry, stomach curled in knots- reached for his laptop. His hands hovered above the keyboard, trembling slightly. He told himself he didn’t have a choice.

Then, with a deep, bitter breath, he started typing.

Every sentence hurt. Every line tasted like poison in his mouth. He twisted Stan’s confessions into tabloid-worthy spins. Made the comic gift look like performative charm. Painted their motel road trip as a calculated move to win sympathy. Dragged Randy Marsh’s name into it, exaggerated the breakdowns, turned every crack in Stan’s armor into a spectacle.

He called Stan cowardly. Self-obsessed. Emotionally unstable.

He told lie after lie after lie... using the truth.

When he was done, his hands were shaking. His eyes burned. He hated himself.

In the bathroom, Stan stepped out, towel around his waist, hair wet and skin flushed from the heat. He smiled, warm and open.

“You want to order something? I was thinking Thai tonight...”

But the smile faded when he saw the look on Kyle’s face. The paleness and the guilt.

Kyle snapped the laptop shut like it had just confessed the crime he couldn’t say aloud. He forced a smile.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Thai sounds good.”

Stan’s smile returned slowly, hesitant but trusting.

And Kyle hated himself a little more.

…

The motel room was dim, and the yellow-orange light of the bedside lamp cast a dull glow over the faded comforter and the half-empty takeout containers on the small table. They’d eaten quietly, but comfortably, pad thai for Stan, spicy green curry for Kyle. It had almost felt normal again.

Afterward, Kyle had retreated into the bathroom for a long shower to think. The sound of water behind the door was steady, cleansing, like a buffer from reality. He still felt like shit.

Meanwhile, Stan stayed on the bed, his stomach full and warm. A part of him wanted to lose himself in the familiar comfort of The Hour. They'd been binge watching the show together on Kyle's MacBook in the past few days. He reached for the laptop and automatically typed in Kyle’s passcode, something he now knew by heart. 

The desktop was still open. Stan looked for the streaming tab, but his eyes caught on a file sitting squarely in the center of the screen. The title made his breath still in his chest:

“Marsh_Article_Revised_DRAFT.docx”

It wasn’t the article he’d helped Kyle write. That one had been named StanFeatureFINAL.

Heart picking up, Stan double-clicked. The document opened.

And with every line his heart cracked.

Stan Marsh is a master of illusion. Known to millions as the sweet-faced, tortured son of "Making It with the Marshs", he hides behind dimples and late-night road trips. But here’s what the cameras don’t show: a manipulative, broken boy playing victim to get ahead.

What the fuck?

Stan kept reading, aloud now, voice trembling, stunned:

His carefully crafted narrative paints him as the tragic son of a Hollywood mogul, but insiders say Marsh has long used his “strained relationship” with his father, Randy Marsh, as a way to dodge accountability. Because Randy Marsh, didn’t raise a son, he built a product. Childhood for Stan meant red carpets and staged smiles. Hobbies like comic books or roleplaying games were banned, “too nerdy,” according to Daddy Dearest. Emotion was weakness. Vulnerability was failure.

And yet, that’s exactly what Stan Marsh has become: weak and vulnerable, hiding behind designer clothes and half-hearted jokes. In private, he’s a man clinging to the approval of a father who built his self-esteem like a house of cards. Even Marsh himself admitted (perhaps too candidly) that he’s “never really felt real unless someone else told [him] who to be.”

Of course, no family photo is complete without the forgotten sibling, and in the Marsh case, that’s Shelley. Stan’s older sister has long been branded “the moody one,” with her perpetual scowl and standoffish red carpet appearances. But what fans don’t know is how deeply the media’s ridicule has cut her.

Behind closed doors, Shelley Marsh has been crying, literally. One source revealed that the actress, worn down by endless tabloid bullying about her appearance, underwent facial surgery to soften her look. Another insider claimed she’s been skipping meals for months now, and is teetering dangerously close to an eating disorder. In public, she rolls her eyes and plays the I-don’t-care card. In private, she is crumbling.

Stan Marsh has confided that he “worries about her every day,” that she “barely eats, barely talks anymore.” And yet, even his concern seems performative, probably another PR-friendly admission to show his softer side.

Then there’s the matter of Wendy Testaburger, the “great love” of Stan’s youth. Fans followed their love story like it was a real-life romcom. But it wasn’t love. It was marketing. Multiple insiders confirm that the relationship was carefully orchestrated by PR teams to maintain public interest. Marsh and Testaburger’s romance was never real. But the breakup? That part may have been, one of the only unscripted catastrophes in his storybook image.

Stan Marsh doesn’t know who he is without an audience. He’s a man who falls in love with the first person who treats him like a human, only to suffocate them with the pressure of being his anchor. One source described him as “self-obsessed and emotionally unstable. Addicted to affection, allergic to reality.”

It’s clear Marsh is desperately trying to rewrite his story. But some stories aren’t meant for a happy ending. He’s not the man you think he is. He’s just playing the part. And he's playing it very well.

Stan's voice broke. “What the fuck is this?”

The water stopped.

Kyle emerged seconds later, towel around his waist, hair still dripping. He froze in the doorway when he saw Stan, the laptop open on his lap, the document staring back.

“Stan…” Kyle’s voice was barely audible. “Wait—”

Stan stood, laptop still open, eyes dark and wounded. “You were gonna publish this?” All those things he told Kyle, thinking he could trust him.

“I wasn’t... I didn’t want to!” Kyle rushed forward. He tightened his towel at his hips as if shielding himself from more than just exposure. “Francis called. He said... he said if I didn’t write something with scandal, something juicy, I’d lose my job.”

“So you just threw me under the goddamn bus.” Stan’s voice was flat and bitter. “I trusted you! I told you everything. Everything no one else gets to hear. And you... you turned it into this?”

“I had to, Stan!” Kyle shouted. “If I lose this job, I’m done! I’ll have to crawl back to my father in New York, tail between my legs, and let him force me into law school even though I fucking despise law. He already thinks journalism is a joke. If I fail at this—if Francis cuts me off—I have nothing. I’ll lose my place in Denver, I’ll lose Bebe, I’ll lose everything I’ve worked hard for!”

Stan shut the laptop with shaking hands. “You think I haven’t lost things?”

Kyle blinked.

“You think I haven’t worked hard? That my life’s been some easy red carpet parade just because I was born to a dad with a name?” Stan’s voice cracked as hurt and fury bled into each single syllable. “I was raised in a lie, Kyle. Told who to be. What to like. Who to love. I wasn’t even allowed to read fucking comic books because they weren’t part of the goddamn Stan Marsh brand!”

Kyle’s eyes flashed. “But at least you had freedom. You have money. Options. Do you have any idea what it’s like to know your entire future depends on one email? One article? To have your father hang your rent and your existence over your head like a leash? I don’t have a trust fund waiting for me. You talk about being trapped, but at least your cage had gold bars.”

Stan flinched like he’d been struck.

Silence crashed between them, heavy and suffocating. Stan stared at Kyle, at the guy he had let in, who had held him, kissed him, made him laugh like no one else could.

The same guy who had just dissected him in print for clicks.

He felt sick.

“I can’t be here right now,” Stan said quietly. He wasn't yelling. Not crying either, even though he felt like that. He was just... done.

He grabbed his bag, his phone, his wallet.

Kyle stepped toward him, towel slipping. “Stan, wait-”

But Stan was already at the door. Already slipping into his sneakers without socks. Already running.

He didn’t know where he was going. Not in this city. Not in this country. But he was good at this part, at disappearing. It’s what he always did when things hurt too much. It’s what he always did when he couldn’t fix it.

As the cold Glasgow air hit his skin, Stan realized bitterly: He’d done it again. He ran.

Chapter Text

The airport was a blur, and so was the flight.

Kyle couldn’t remember much of anything between the moment Stan stormed out of the motel room and now, hours later, stepping off the plane at Denver International Airport. He couldn’t remember what he ate, if he ate at all. Couldn’t remember if he slept. Couldn’t remember the customs line, the Uber ride. Just cold windows, hollow footsteps, and the ache of a heart that felt like it had been ripped out of his chest somewhere over the Atlantic.

He was a ghost of himself by the time he reached the small apartment he shared with Bebe, the place that once felt like a symbol of freedom and progress and everything he’d built for himself.

Now it just felt like a prison he was walking back into.

The sun was already starting to rise in soft peach streaks behind the buildings when he unlocked the door. His hand shook on the doorknob.

He stepped inside.

Bebe was already up, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a blanket over her shoulders and two mugs of coffee on the table in front of her. Her blond curls were tied up messily, and there was a laptop open beside her. She looked up the moment the door clicked, and when she saw him, she stood instantly.

“Kyle.” Her voice was soft and careful.

He didn’t say anything. He just dropped his carry-on at the door like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Bebe stepped toward him slowly. “Are you okay?”

Kyle nodded. Then shook his head. Then laughed a little. It came out more like a sob. Bebe caught him just as his legs buckled. She wrapped her arms around him, tight and steady, and held him up as he finally broke.

“I messed it all up,” he choked as he buried his face into her shoulder. “I messed everything up, Bebe. I—I hurt him.”

“Hey, hey,” she murmured. Her hand rubbed slow circles into his back. “What happened?”

“I wrote the article. The one Francis wanted. The horrible one,” Kyle gasped out between sobs. The guilt spilled from his chest like floodwater. “I wrote everything. Every secret Stan told me. Every moment he was vulnerable. I used it. I turned it into clickbait. I hate myself for it so much, Bebe. I hate...”

She hushed him gently. Her grip was never once faltering. “You were scared.”

“I loved him.” His voice cracked. “I think I still do. And I destroyed it. I destroyed him.”

Bebe didn’t speak for a long moment. She just held him tighter. Eventually, she guided him to the couch, where he collapsed beside her like a ragdoll. She pressed a mug of coffee into his hands. He didn’t drink it.

“I’m gonna lose everything,” Kyle said hollowly. “If I don’t send the article in, Francis will fire me. If I do send it in… Stan will never speak to me again. And he shouldn’t.”

Bebe leaned her head on his shoulder. “So don’t send it.”

He blinked down at her. “I just told you—”

“I know. I heard everything. But Kyle, if you send that article, you’re not just losing Stan. You’re losing you. The real you. The version of you that got on a plane to chase a real story. The one who worked his ass off because he wanted to write something that mattered.”

Kyle swallowed hard. “But what if that’s not enough? What if I lose everything?”

Bebe looked up at him fiercely. “Then you start over. And I’ll be right here when you do.”

Kyle closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. And for the first time since he’d left Scotland, the tears that came next were silent. They were heavy, but still cleansing. Bebe didn’t move. She just held him while the sky outside their tiny apartment turned from lavender to blue.

…

The gravel crunched under Stan’s boots when he stepped out of the cab. The faded silhouette of the farmhouse stood tall against the overcast sky. A familiar chill crawled up his spine. He hadn’t even made it past the front porch before the boom mic came swinging into view.

“Camera’s rolling,” someone said from behind a lens.

Stan blinked. The crew was already here. Of course they were.

Inside the farmhouse, everything looked like it had been frozen in time, or rather, artfully staged to look like homey chaos. The lighting was too perfect, the props too deliberately placed. Fresh-baked cookies on the counter, barely touched. A set of family photo albums left open on the table to remind the audience of happier days. It was all fake. A performance, just like it had always been.

And at the center of it all stood Randy Marsh, the very same man who had haunted Stan’s every ambition and dictated every move since he was a kid. Randy was in his classic light-wash denim, sleeves rolled up to show off tanned forearms, a worn flannel shirt open just enough to be relatable. The family patriarch in full form.

He turned the moment Stan crossed the threshold. “There he is!” Randy boomed and flashed a TV-perfect grin. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

Stan barely had time to take a breath before his father clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him into a side hug, an awkward, jarring thing that was more about optics than affection. A camera swooped in to capture it. The light mounted on top cast a harsh glare into Stan’s eyes.

“Come on, let’s get this,” Randy called to the crew. “Let’s run that again, from the porch this time. Stan, buddy, just hang back outside and we’ll cue you in.”

“I just got here,” Stan muttered.

Randy clapped again. “Exactly! Gotta capture that raw emotion, son. America loves a comeback story. You walking up, me opening the door, us reuniting — chef’s kiss. Let’s go again!”

Stan stood there, muscles tense. His heart was still shattered and bruised from everything that happened with Kyle. And now he was being pulled right back into the machine, into the script, into the lie.

“Stan,” Shelley said softly.

She’d come in from the kitchen, hair tied up in a rushed ponytail, still in her pastel blouse from her London event. She must’ve taken the red-eye back after her birthday party wrapped, just like that. She looked exhausted but present.

Her eyes met his, and for a second, her expression softened. “You okay?”

“No,” he said simply.

Sharon was fussing with a decorative basket of eggs in the corner and added a few feathers for rustic charm. When she spotted her son, her eyes widened, and then, she just looked sorry for him. Sorry that he had been sucked into this hellhole once again. Meanwhile, another crew member was adjusting the sound levels. Randy was telling the director how he wanted to come off more “fatherly but firm, think Kevin Costner on a good day.”

Stan stared around at it all.

This is where he belonged. Not because it was home, but because he had nowhere else to go. Because Kyle had taken whatever thread of hope he had and cut it clean in half. Stan had nowhere else to be, and Randy knew it. His chest hurt with the weight of betrayal. He had let someone in for the first time in years. He’d shared his secrets, his fears, his past. And it had all been turned into something cruel. The article hadn’t even gone live yet, but he knew it was just a matter of time. The countdown had started the second he saw the draft. Stan turned toward the door, contemplating leaving again.

“Don’t even think about it,” Randy said from behind him, suddenly sharp. “This is where you are now, Stan. This is what we do. You want to eat? You want to stay on payroll? You smile for the cameras. You say the right words. You be the Stan Marsh America fell in love with.”

Stan swallowed hard and forced himself to stay standing. Because what choice did he have? So he squared his shoulders and took a breath.

And when the director called for action, Stan stepped back out onto the porch, waiting for his cue like the good little Marsh he’d been trained to be. He knew his mark. He knew his lines. He knew how to make it look like everything was fine.

But deep down, behind the practiced smile and empty eyes, all he could feel was the raw sting of heartbreak. And the distant echo of a bike ride through Glasgow. Of a boy who looked at him like he was more than a headline.

Stan blinked once, swallowed it all down, and walked back through the door when they called action.

The show must go on.

...

The farmhouse creaked and murmured with life, though it was all artificial. The crew’s footsteps echoed down the hall like ghosts. Somewhere downstairs, Randy’s voice boomed again, commanding but also cheerful and fake. Cameras hummed, lights burned, and performances resumed.

Stan had escaped up the stairs the moment he could. He just couldn't take the mock-polite dinner scene that had been staged for the cameras. It was laughable. Fake roast, fake banter, fake smiles, fake fucking everything. He hadn’t said more than a few words. His heart wasn’t in it. Hell, it hadn’t been in it for a long time.

He knocked softly on Shelley’s door before pushing it open.

Her room was dimly lit by a table lamp, the blinds drawn tight. Unlike the rest of the house, it didn’t look camera-ready. Makeup wipes on the desk, charger cords tangled near the bed, a hoodie tossed over the chair. It looked lived-in, even though she also had her own apartment outside of South Park.

Shelley was curled up in her desk chair, bare-legged in an oversized t-shirt. She lazily painted her toenails black.

“Hey,” Stan said.

She raised a brow and blew lightly on one toe. “Look what the wind dragged in.”

“I needed to breathe,” he muttered.

She gestured at the empty space on her bed with the polish brush. “Then breathe here.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his shoulders still heavy from pretending all day. Shelley got up, tossed the polish aside, and walked over to her closet. From behind a pile of cardigans, she pulled out a familiar bottle.

“Did you just... have that hidden?” Stan asked.

She smirked. “What, you think I’m getting through seasons eleven and twelve of Making It with the Marshs sober? If our nutritionist says anything, I'm punching him.”

She handed him the whiskey bottle and two mismatched mugs. No glasses or anything fancy.

They drank in silence for a moment. The burn felt familiar and warm as it slid down his throat. Stan let out a slow breath.

“You know,” he said, “I didn’t even crave this stuff… when I was out there, except for a few glasses here and there. Not really. Not when I was with him.”

Shelley sat across from him, criss-cross on the bed. Her expression softened just slightly. “So that road trip across Europe wasn’t just a PR stunt then?”

Stan shook his head. “It wasn’t PR at all. It was real. He was real.”

“And now you’re back here,” she said, and glanced toward the door and the faint sounds of the crew packing up downstairs.

“Yeah. Back in the cage.”

A silence settled over them again, more comfortable this time.

“Is there a silver lining?” he asked after a moment, not even sure why. “In all of this crap?”

Shelley sighed and finally let her usual scowl fade. “Kenny’s returning next week. Dad roped him into being some kind of assistant to the production crew. He may be a turd, just like you, but he deserved that promotion.”

Stan glanced up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You’ll at least have him around to make sarcastic comments and sneak out for burgers with.”

He nodded slowly, then gave her a questioning look. “What about you?”

“Well,” Shelley said and tipped back her mug, “Heidi’s getting some screentime this season. Cameo in episode three, I think. I made it happen. She’s still a little shy, but if I’m gonna suffer through this hellscape, I’m dragging people I like with me.”

Stan managed a crooked smile. “Thanks for that.”

She shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

He leaned back and took another sip. “I hate this shit.”

“I do too.”

They both looked at the ceiling.

“Mom hates it too,” Shelley added after a moment, almost absently. “She never says it out loud, but she does. You can see it in her eyes every time dad says ‘Just one more season.’ And now spin-offs are in the works.”

Stan groaned and let his head fall back. “Three more seasons. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Yup.”

“And no way out.”

“Nope.”

Stan stared into the darkened corner of the room. The bottle sat heavy in his hand, but not as heavy as the ache in his chest. “Kyle really hurt me.”

Shelley’s eyes flicked to him. She didn’t say anything for a second. Then, without warning, she scooted across the bed and sat beside him. Shelley wasn’t a touchy-feely person. They’d fought like cats and dogs growing up, competed for screen time, snapped at each other, ignored each other. But they’d also shared a childhood in front of the same cameras, lived under the same roof of expectations, survived Randy Marsh together.

She pulled him into a hug.

And Stan, so tired, so angry, so completely heartbroken, didn’t pull away. He let her hold him, let the ache finally spill over. Silent tears ran down his cheeks, hot and fast, as he pressed his face against her shoulder. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

They sat there, the two Marshs the world had seen grow up; still trapped, still hurting, still here. Still trying to figure out how the hell to survive.

…

The elevator doors creaked open with that familiar, depressing groan, and Kyle stepped into the bland, gray-carpeted third floor of the Mile High Scoop headquarters. Same flickering lights, same half-dead office plants, same wall of framed tabloid covers featuring screaming headlines and celebrity meltdowns. Kyle paused, hand shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie where the USB drive rested like a stone. It was warm from his palm, from his pacing, from the sheer weight of what it held.

The article, disguised as the betrayal.

The bullpen beyond the glass wall buzzed with quiet chaos. Phones were ringing, fingers clacking at keyboards, new interns squabbling over who had to fetch Francis’ triple shot oat milk latte. Kyle had once believed this place was just a pit stop, a temporary detour on his way to real journalism. He was fresh out of college, idealistic and bright-eyed. He thought a year, maybe two, and he’d be off to The Atlantic or Rolling Stone, writing longform investigative pieces that mattered.

He was twenty-three now and still a paid intern. And today, he was about to hand in the most despicable thing he'd ever written. His stomach turned as he moved past the cubicles. People barely glanced at him. They were way too busy chasing the next sensationalized headline. That used to be him too. Until Stan turned his life upside down.

Francis’ office door was ajar, and the man himself sat behind a desk cluttered with half-eaten sandwiches, a gold-rimmed espresso cup, and three cell phones. His thinning hair was slicked back and glistening, his button-down shirt half-untucked. His gaze snapped up the second he saw Kyle.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my wayward intern,” Francis drawled. “Took your sweet-ass time, Broflovski. I was about to assume you’d grown a conscience. Sit.”

Kyle sat, stiffly. His hand trembled slightly in the pocket of his hoodie.

“You got the article?”

He nodded as his fingers brushed the USB drive in his pocket. It burned against his skin like guilt made real. He thought of the title—Stan Marsh: America’s Broken Heartthrob—and all the lies it wrapped itself in. How it exploited the truths Stan had told him in moments of vulnerability. How it turned something real into something grotesque.

He thought of Stan in that little motel room in Glasgow, wearing one of Kyle’s hoodies, laughing with chicken grease on his fingers. Kissing him like he meant it, trusting him. He thought of the look on Stan’s face when he read the article draft.

Kyle’s hand closed around the USB… then released.

He let out a breath as he looked Francis square in the eye.

“I’m not giving it to you.”

Francis blinked, utterly unamused. “What?”

But Kyle stood slowly. “I said, I’m not giving it to you.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I won’t be handing in the article,” Kyle said, voice firmer now, steadier with every word. “Because it’s not journalism. It’s not even reporting. It’s exploitation. And it’s not who I want to be.”

Francis stood too now. “Oh, spare me the integrity speech, kid. You think you’re better than this place? Better than me? You came crawling to us right out of college and now you wanna pretend you’ve grown a spine?”

Kyle held his gaze. “I’m grateful that you hired me. I learned a lot here. But I’m done. I quit.”

“You what?” Francis spat. “You don’t quit. You’re fired. Don’t even think about coming back for references. You’ll never work in this town again, you little shit!!”

However, Kyle just turned toward the door, ignoring the heat behind his eyes. Francis’ voice echoed after him, ugly and furious: “You’re fired! Fired!!!”

The glass door swung shut behind him. He walked through the bullpen, past the cubicles, past the headlines, past the toxic coffee air, and stepped outside. The cold Denver air smacked his face as if the universe was trying to wake him up. And maybe it did.

He stood on the steps of the Mile High Scoop, and just watched the city bustle around him like it had no idea his world had just shifted. He’d done the right thing. He’d also just lost his job. But his integrity? He still had that.

Kyle took a deep breath. The USB drive stayed buried in his pocket like a cursed thing. He didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know if he’d ever see Stan again. But at least, he didn’t feel like a sellout. He felt like himself.

He kept his hands deep in his hoodie pocket as he walked. He could’ve taken the bus, that would’ve been faster and warmer. But he needed the time, needed the cold to numb the edges of his spiraling thoughts.

He was jobless now.

The words echoed in his mind like a cruel refrain.

You’re fired! Fired!!! Francis’ voice still rang in his ears, full of venom and petty power. And what came next? Homelessness? Rock bottom? He couldn’t afford his part of rent without the Mile High Scoop, and Bebe’s barista job could only stretch so far. He imagined calling his parents, how his dad would sigh dramatically on the other end of the line before launching into another speech about responsibility, legacy, and how Kyle should’ve just gone to law school like they wanted. It would be so easy to crawl back and let them pay his rent. Let them mold him into a clean-cut lawyer, just another Broflovski at Broflovski, Carr & Fox.

But the thought alone made him nauseous.

He kicked at a crumpled soda can on the sidewalk, watched it clatter into the gutter. He wasn’t cut out for the courtroom. He wanted to write. He wanted to matter. And now he’d given up the only job he had for a guy who probably never wanted to see him again. By the time he turned the corner onto his street, his feet were sore and the sky was starting to dim to that pale orange haze of dusk. At first, he thought maybe someone was moving out. He saw vans parked haphazardly, doors open, people with big cameras and bigger lenses pacing in front of his building.

But then he saw the logos.

Local stations as well as gossip sites. One of the vans even had a retractable satellite dish on top.

His heart dropped.

Then someone shouted, “There he is!”

And then they all moved at once, like a swarm.

“Kyle Broflovski, is it true you had an affair with Stan Marsh?”

“Did you two meet while you were profiling him?”

“Is this just a fling or are you dating?”

“Was the article a setup from the beginning?”

“How long have you been involved with the TV star?”

Kyle froze mid-step, nearly swallowed by the sudden flash of lights, of the sound of shutters clicking and microphones being shoved into his face. He stumbled back and nearly tripped on the curb, shielding his eyes.

“I—I’m not giving a statement,” he stammered. He blinked hard, and his heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted out. “No comment, please.”

He tried to push through the sea of bodies. Shoulders bumped his, cameras scraped against his jacket. Someone tried to shove a phone in his face. He flinched away.

“Kyle! Kyle! Was it real or just research?”

He ducked under a camera rig and made a break for the front entrance of his apartment complex, shoving open the glass door and letting it slam shut behind him. He pressed his back against the wall, panting. The sound of muffled voices and camera shutters still echoed beyond the door.

His hands were shaking. His hoodie was damp with sweat, despite the cold. He felt exposed and violated.

What the fuck had just happened?

The elevator was mercifully empty. He rode it up to the fourth floor in stunned silence and stared at the scratched metal doors. Everything was unraveling. His life as well as his anonymity and sanity.

A photo. It had to be that photo from Glasgow. Of course, after the people there had seen them kissing in broad daylight. Of course it had made the rounds. He remembered how free he’d felt in that moment. How right it was. How happy they were. And now it was a headline.

He trudged down the hallway to his apartment, unlocked the door with shaking fingers, and stepped inside. It was dark. Bebe wasn’t home. Maybe at work, or maybe she was dodging the reporters too.

Kyle stood there, in the silence, still wearing his coat, heart still pounding like it didn’t know what to do with itself. The only thing louder than the reporters outside was the question spinning inside his head:

What the hell do I do now?

Chapter Text

The drive to Wendy Testaburger’s penthouse was quiet, the silence in Stan’s borrowed car broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional slap of the windshield wipers. Colorado was gray today, washed in a half-hearted drizzle. It suited Stan’s mood. He’d left the farmhouse without telling anyone, not even Shelley. He couldn’t take another moment of Randy’s fake affection or the cameras following his every move. He had to warn Wendy before that article came out.

He had no idea what Kyle was thinking now, and he didn’t want to assume the best anymore. That hope had already shattered.

The penthouse was as over-the-top as Stan remembered, perched like a glass crown on the edge of Denver’s skyline. But when Wendy opened the door, it felt like walking into an alternate universe.

Her once-glossy raven hair hung in uneven waves, limp and frizzy at the ends. She wore an old grey tracksuit that swallowed her thin frame, her feet bare, her expression tight with surprise. She looked pale and tired. Like a balloon that had lost all its air.

“Stan?” she asked. One perfectly shaped brow twitched in confusion. “Are you… okay?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said, and stepped inside when she waved him in.

The place was still stylish, but there were signs of wear now: dishes stacked on the kitchen counter, a half-drunk glass of red wine left on the windowsill, mail unopened on the table. The lights were dim. It smelled faintly of takeout and old perfume.

“I didn’t expect to see you, of all people.” Wendy brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “What brings the prodigal Marsh son to my door?”

Stan glanced around the living room. “I wanted to warn you.”

Her brow furrowed.

“There’s going to be an article,” he explained, voice low. “Kyle, he’s writing it. Or maybe already wrote it. And I said too much. About you, us, everything.”

Wendy didn’t flinch or gasp. She just stared for a long moment, then sank into the couch like her bones had turned to lead.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “You believed in someone. You always did that better than me.”

Stan sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. “I was trying to do all of this, for you. To become someone better. Someone you’d want to… I don’t even know. And I realized… I didn’t know you at all.”

Her smile was bitter, but real. “Yeah. You probably didn’t.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the air thick with everything they hadn’t said.

Then Wendy looked up. Her expression was tight with regret. “I owe you an apology too. Back when we reconnected, I wasn’t being honest. Not with you, and not with myself. Randy didn’t say it out loud, but he made it clear. If I could get you back, he’d connect me with the right people. Big names, casting directors, producers, you name it.”

Stan’s jaw clenched. “So it was all really just a setup?”

“I thought it’d just be harmless,” Wendy said softly. “I was dating Gregory, and I thought I’d flirt, maybe sleep with you once, and that’d be enough. But then I saw you again, and it was you, and part of me wanted it to be real. And when you turned me down…” She shook her head, eyes glassy. “You were the first guy who ever did that. It… surprised me. Humbled me, I guess.”

“You were ready to cheat on Gregory.”

“I know,” she said, voice cracking. “And when I told him, he broke up with me. Which I deserved. That was shortly after Venice happened, where I helped Kyle find you because I thought more screen time for you meant more exposure for me. I hate that I thought like that. I was desperate.”

Stan exhaled. He didn’t say anything for a while.

“Do you miss him?” he asked eventually. “Gregory?”

“More than anything,” she whispered.

Stan swallowed. “Then go to him.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “It’s not that simple, Stan. I destroyed what we had.”

“Yeah? Well, I did that too. With Kyle.” He looked down at his hands. “I miss him so much it makes my teeth ache. And I hate him. And I still miss him.”

Wendy stared at him for a while. Then something shifted in her. The fire that had once made her the queen of every room flickered to life again, just a little.

“I want to fix things,” she said quietly. “But I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well,” Stan said as he stood and brushed off his jeans, “you could start by telling me where Gregory lives.”

She blinked. “You’re serious?”

Stan offered her a crooked smile. “Dead serious. We’re going to see him now.”

Wendy hesitated, then stood, wobbling a bit in her oversized sweats. She grabbed a nearby hair tie and looped her hair back. The tiniest hint of light returned to her face. “You’re such a dramatic idiot, Marsh.”

“And you love that about me,” he said, grinning.

She laughed, just once, but it sounded like something healing. 

“Let me grab my shoes.”

The drive to Gregory’s place didn’t take long, but the silence in the car stretched endlessly between Stan and Wendy. Her knee bounced nervously, her fingers gripped the door handle like she was holding onto the moment before everything changed. When they pulled up to Gregory’s house, a fancy, ivy-covered mansion on the outskirts of Denver, Stan stared up at it like it was a castle surrounded by a moat of tension.

He’d never liked Gregory of Yardale. The guy had a way of making Stan feel like a particularly dumb extra in his own life. Polished, well-mannered, and British enough to make “hello” sound like an insult. But even Gregory didn’t deserve to be cheated on—or almost cheated on—and Wendy and Gregory’s relationship shouldn’t be another casualty of Randy Marsh’s reality show manipulation machine.

So when Gregory opened the front door, tall and cool in a cashmere sweater, blinking at the two of them like it was the last thing he’d expected today, Stan jumped in.

“Hey. Um. I know this is weird. And I’m probably the last person you want to see. But I just need to explain some things.”

Gregory’s brows arched, but he didn’t slam the door. That was something.

Stan cleared his throat. “This wasn’t all Wendy’s fault. My dad, Randy, he… he made her think she had to try and get back together with me to boost her career. He didn't say it outright, but you know how he operates. Everything’s a chessboard. And Wendy was a pawn.”

Wendy flinched at that, but didn’t argue.

Gregory’s face was unreadable. “And you?”

“I turned her down. I still loved her, but I didn’t want that. Not like that.”

A beat. Then Gregory nodded once and turned to Wendy. “Can we talk?”

Wendy looked at Stan, gave a hesitant nod, and followed Gregory inside.

And Stan was left alone on the wraparound porch. He sat on the steps as the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders again. Out of habit, or maybe dread, he pulled out his phone and typed his name into Google.

He braced for that article.

But it wasn’t there.

Instead, the top result was from a celebrity gossip blog: “Affair at 30,000 Feet: Tabloid Intern and Reality Star Spotted Kissing in Glasgow”

Stan’s stomach twisted as he opened the article. There it was: a blurry photo of him and Kyle kissing in that narrow alleyway in Glasgow, just outside the pub where they’d been laughing minutes earlier. It had been private. 

And now… not anymore.

The article was full of speculation and sleazy language. It called Kyle a “rising tabloid star with questionable ethics” and painted Stan as a “fallen prince of reality TV.” But what got to Stan wasn’t the words—it was the photos. Another one showed Kyle, yesterday or maybe even today, standing outside his apartment building. Surrounded by paparazzi. His hoodie pulled low over his head, his eyes red and tired, like he hadn’t slept in days. The caption called it “The Price of Scandal.”

Stan felt sick.

He’s not built for this, Stan thought. This isn’t his world.

Stan and his family knew how to manage the press. But Kyle didn’t. Kyle hated this stuff.

And now he was in the middle of it because of Stan. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the door creaked open behind him.

Gregory and Wendy stepped out, hand in hand. Wendy’s face was puffy from crying, but there was a lightness in her expression Stan hadn’t seen in ages. Gregory looked calm. Maybe not happy, but calm.

“We’re going to try again,” Wendy sighed. “We talked a lot. He’s willing to give me another chance. On the condition that we start therapy. Real therapy, none of that PR spin garbage.”

Stan nodded and stood slowly. “Good. That’s… that’s really good.”

Gregory looked at Stan. “Thank you. For telling me the truth.” His voice sounded clipped but sincere

“Don’t thank me. Just… be good to each other.”

He turned to leave, but Wendy caught his arm.

“You know,” she said softly, “it’s easier to help me fix my relationship with Gregory than to face your own broken one.”

At that, Stan stilled.

She looked him in the eye. “You should talk to Kyle. Listen to his side of the story. Before the media or your anger tell you what to believe.”

Stan didn’t answer, not with words. But something inside him shifted. He nodded once.

Then walked down the porch steps to his car. Wendy’s words still echoed behind him like a challenge:

Listen to his side.

…

Kyle had lost count of how many resumes he’d sent out. News outlets, digital magazines, even niche blogs no one had ever heard of, he applied to all of them. His cover letters were painstakingly rewritten each time, carefully tiptoed around the PR storm currently surrounding him. But no matter how much he tried to shift focus back to his Columbia credentials or his stellar internship references (pre-Mile High Scoop, of course), the responses were always the same.

“We regret to inform you...”

Or worse.

The first time it happened, he’d been excited. An independent culture magazine in Boulder had emailed him asking to come in for an interview. He’d put on a blazer, shaved, even practiced answers in the mirror. But the moment he stepped into the office, he knew something was off.

The editor, a smug thirty-something with horn-rimmed glasses, didn’t even offer him water.

“You know,” the man said, tapping Kyle’s resume with a pen, “we’re not going to hire you.”

Kyle blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Starting a sexual affair with your subject? Very Gossip Girl, not very Pulitzer.” The man smirked. “But what I would like is an exclusive about your relationship with Stan Marsh. Tell-all style. We'll even get you on the podcast.”

Kyle left without saying a word. Slammed the door on his way out.

And it kept happening, over and over. Places pretending to give him a shot, only to corner him with microphones and bait him into selling out his private life. No one wanted the journalist, only the scandal.

He was radioactive.

Even stepping out of his apartment had become a nightmare. Paparazzi were still camped outside the complex, their lenses trained on every window like vultures waiting for roadkill to move. He hadn’t gone outside in four days.

Bebe had started doing the grocery runs. She would make a production out of it; dark glasses, hoodie, earbuds in, striding down the sidewalk like an off-duty rockstar. She hated the attention but handled it with way more grace than Kyle could muster.

He sat slouched on their battered couch, and scrolled through the Eric Cartman interview with the kind of masochistic curiosity that made his stomach churn. The headline alone made his skin crawl: “Former Classmate: Kyle Broflovski Was Always Out for Himself”

Cartman—of course it was Cartman—painted him as a ruthless climber, someone who "used his charm and tears to manipulate professors and peers alike." He even dragged up some long-dead college drama involving a rejected internship and blamed Kyle for “sabotaging” it. All fucking lies. Twisted half-truths at best.

Now, instead of being seen as a driven, scrappy grad from Columbia, he was being labeled a clout-chasing golddigger who seduced a reality star for headlines.

And Stan… Stan probably believed it too.

A door opened and Bebe entered, juggling two grocery bags and kicking the door shut behind her with her foot. “I got your sad oat milk and your fancy granola,” she called. “Also, someone left this,” she tossed a manila envelope onto the counter, “I think it’s another request for an interview.”

Kyle groaned and pulled his hoodie tighter around his head. “I swear, if one more person asks me about how Stan kisses, I’m going to scream.”

Bebe grinned as she unpacked the groceries. “Let me guess... devastatingly well?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he cracked a smile.

She leaned against the counter and chewed a Red Vine. “Hey… so, Shelley texted me.”

Kyle perked up a little. “She did?”

“Yeah. She pulled some strings. I have a casting next week for a small part in a new HBO show. If I get it, I’ll get my SAG card.”

“Bebe. That’s amazing. Like… actual dream-come-true level amazing.”

She shrugged like it was no big deal, but the proud blush on her cheeks gave her away. “We’ll see. I’m not counting my chickens.”

Kyle looked at her and warmth swelled in his chest despite the chaos around him. “I’m so happy for you. Really. You deserve this.”

She crossed the room, ruffled his hair like a big sister, and plopped down next to him. “And you deserve better than this crapshoot circus.”

“Do I?” he whispered.

Bebe gave him a sharp look. “Don’t even go there. The world is trash right now, but you’re still you. Still brilliant. Still a writer. And if these publishing vultures won’t give you a chance, you can at least make some money slinging drinks with me at the bar.”

He laughed, actually laughed, for the first time in what felt like years. “You want me to become a bartender?”

“I want you to stay in this apartment,” she said honestly. “I like having you around. You make weird midnight pasta and yell at the TV and… I don’t want to lose my roommate and best friend.”

Kyle blinked quickly. “Thanks,” he whispered. “You’re kind of my only tether right now.”

Bebe smiled softly. “Then hold on tight, Kyle. We’re gonna get through this.”

…

It was past midnight when Kyle’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He didn’t check it at first. He’d been staring at the ceiling for over an hour, unable to sleep. The fan hummed overhead. Bebe was passed out on the couch, an open bag of popcorn cradled in her arms like a baby.

When the buzz came again, Kyle finally rolled over with a groan and squinted at the screen.

Instagram: 1 new message
From @ClarkKent11

His heart stuttered.

That username. That ridiculous, kind-of-adorable, secretly-nerdy alias. ClarkKent11. The Finsta where everything started. Where Stan Marsh—the Stan Marsh—first messaged him months ago, like some cursed celebrity sliding into his dms with a fake account and the charm of a golden retriever in a tux.

Kyle unlocked the phone with trembling fingers. His thumb hovered for a beat before he tapped the message.

It was a screenshot of Spotify.

Adele – Hello
Now Playing.

Below it, just one line of text from Stan:

Kyle stared at it, half-laughing, half-wanting to cry. He sank deeper into the pillows. The warmth in his chest thawing something that had been frozen for weeks. His fingers moved before his brain could catch up.

Kyle smiled. It hurt, how easily they fell back into the rhythm. Like muscle memory. Like breathing underwater and finding you’ve grown gills.

Kyle stared at the screen until his vision blurred. Then another message followed:

Kyle hesitated before typing his next message:

Kyle's heart ached.

He wanted to say no to protect himself. To build walls and be smart.

But he wasn’t smart when it came to Stan Marsh. He never had been.

And with that, the floodgates opened.

They talked about how Bebe got a callback for that HBO show. How Stan helped Wendy patch things up with Gregory. How Adele still made Stan cry and how Kyle was very secretly into Beyoncé now because Bebe played her on repeat during breakdowns.

They didn’t talk about the motel. Or the fight. Or the article Kyle never published.

Not yet.

But for now, Kyle was holding his phone to his chest, curled up in bed, whispering back texts to the only person who made the ache bearable.

And even though the world outside was a mess, and the headlines still had his name in them for all the wrong reasons, Stan was talking to him again. And that had to count for something.

The conversation stretched past midnight, even bled into the early morning hours like a soft wound.

Stan and Kyle chatted about everything and nothing, about the sheep that escaped during a chaotic day of filming, about Bebe’s increasing obsession with oat milk, about Shelley’s latest deadpan quip that made Stan spit water onto his mic’d-up shirt on set.

And yet, despite the familiar banter, the flow between them felt… stilted. Like trying to dance in a room where the music was slightly off-beat. They were still themselves, still Kyle and Stan, but there was space between the words now. A nervousness, a weight neither one wanted to name.

Kyle could feel it with every message.

His heart ached. Physically ached. Every time Stan’s name popped up on the screen, his stomach flipped in that stupid, familiar way. But something was different now, something that couldn’t be smoothed over by emojis or memories of shared breakfasts in crooked motel kitchens. Kyle sat cross-legged on his bed, the glow from his phone screen painting blue shadows on the walls. He didn’t know when Bebe had turned in for the night. The apartment was quiet, save for the creaks and sighs of the old pipes and the occasional honk outside.

Stan’s last message, timestamped 4:13 am.

Kyle laughed under his breath, a soft, tired sound. He looked out his own window and saw only the amber-orange haze of streetlights melting into the slow graying of dawn.

He wanted to say I miss you. He wanted to say Are we okay?
He wanted to ask Do you think about that night in Scotland? The first time you kissed me? The morning in rural Germany when we danced to heavy metal songs with toothbrushes in our mouths?

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he typed:

No answer came immediately. Just those dots, blinking in and out. Then vanishing.

Kyle stared at the screen until the dots disappeared completely. Stan was probably just tired. Or maybe he didn’t know how to answer.

His chest clenched.

He tossed his phone on the bed beside him and stood, pacing. His limbs felt twitchy, like his skin didn’t fit quite right. It wasn’t just the exhaustion or the grief. It was this crushing weight in his ribs, the words he hadn’t said, the feelings he kept folding into neat corners and stuffing away.

He couldn't do this anymore, stay quiet, pretend the whole thing wasn’t gnawing at him from the inside. He padded across the room, barefoot, and sat down at his desk. He opened his laptop. His fingers hovered above the keyboard.

And then, slowly, they started to move.

He didn’t write an exposé. He didn’t write a list of Stan’s faults. He didn’t write for anyone else this time. He wrote what he felt. He wrote everything he’d been too afraid to say. He wrote like his heart had finally gotten tired of carrying it all alone.

Chapter Text

The scent of hairspray and foundation filled the old converted barn that had been turned into a makeshift studio. Stan sat still, eyes vacant, while a makeup artist dabbed concealer beneath his eyes. He didn’t argue when someone adjusted his collar. He didn’t flinch when the clapperboard snapped beside his ear. Another day, another fake smile to paint over everything broken.

"Scene seven, cold open—"

The door slammed open with a bang.

“Out,” Shelley barked as she stormed into the room like a hurricane in designer boots. “Everyone. Now.”

The room froze.

The makeup artist blinked at her. “But we’re still—”

“I said out!” Shelley didn’t yell often, but when she did, the room obeyed.

People filed out, mumbling and confused. The door shut behind them with a loud click. Stan raised an eyebrow, still half in a daze.

“What the fuck, Shelley—”

“Read this.” She thrust her phone into his face like it was a torch in a dark cave.

Stan stared at the screen, squinting at first. The website looked familiar, one of those honest digital magazines that only ran first-person essays and long-form op-eds. He blinked at the title.

“The Thing About Finding Stan Marsh” — by Kyle Broflovski

His mouth went dry. Shelley stayed quiet, arms crossed, like she was trying hard not to let on how much this mattered.

So Stan started reading.

Stan read the last word and didn’t move. His throat was dry. His heart felt like it had been scooped out and rearranged. He looked up at Shelley, eyes wide and lips parted.

“I—” he started, but his voice cracked.

Shelley nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Stan stared at the phone again, like the words might vanish if he blinked. “He didn’t publish it. The article about us. He didn’t do it.”

“No,” she said. “He didn’t.”

The weight of that hit Stan all at once. Everything Kyle had gone through; the paparazzi, the headlines as well as the job rejections. All while Stan had no idea.

His hand shook a little as he gave the phone back. “He could’ve destroyed me.”

“But he didn’t,” Shelley said gently. “Because he’s not like them.”

Stan ran a hand down his face. In the process, he smeared the makeup they’d just finished painting on. He didn’t fucking care.

Because Kyle didn’t sell him out. He told the truth instead.

The phone slipped from Stan’s fingers and landed on the old wood floor with a soft thud. He sat there in silence while the words of Kyle’s article echoed in his head. His chest felt tight, but for once it wasn’t from guilt, it was something else. It felt like a bittersweet kind of hope.

Kyle hadn’t exposed him. Kyle had told the truth. And suddenly, Stan knew exactly what he had to do.

He stood up abruptly.

Shelley, who had been watching him like a hawk, didn’t say anything at first. She just waited, like she already knew.

“I have to go,” Stan said, voice clearer than it had been in days. “I have to get the hell out of this shithole.”

For once, Shelley didn’t scowl or roll her eyes. Her lips twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. She nodded. “Then go.”

Stan blinked. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“No.” She shrugged. “I read the article. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. And neither did you. You’ve always been the good one, the only one who didn’t want this life. If anyone deserves to walk away, it’s you.”

That made Stan pause. Of all the people he thought he’d have to convince, Shelley wasn’t one of them.

She stepped forward and straightened the collar of his jacket like she had when they were kids. “And besides,” she added, “I’ll cover for you in the next scene. Tell them you had food poisoning or heatstroke or whatever.” She looked him straight in the eye. “But you better not waste this. Go find him.”

He stared at her, eyes misting over. “Thanks, Shells.”

“Don’t make it weird,” she muttered as she pushed him toward the door. “Now go deal with him.”

Randy was on the front porch, yelling into a headset and waving his hands like a general in the middle of a battle.

“I said more drama, not less! Where’s the damn drone footage? And if Heidi doesn’t cry in this next take, we’re redoing the whole thing—”

“Dad,” Stan said.

Randy turned, annoyed. “Not now, Stan, I’m—”

“I’m done.”

At that, Randy stopped mid-rant. The headset slid off his ear.

“What?”

“I’m done with the show,” Stan repeated and stepped fully onto the porch. “I’m done with the scripts, the reshoots, the fake plots. I’m done pretending like this is my life. I’m out.”

Randy’s face turned a violent shade of red. “You’re what?”

“You heard me,” Stan said calmly, though his hands were fists at his sides. “I’m not doing this anymore.”

“You’re under contract—”

“I’ll fight it,” Stan snapped. “I’ll use every penny I have if I have to. I don’t care anymore. I’m not letting you script my life. I’m not letting you manipulate everyone around me. I’m not sacrificing who I am just to make you happy.”

“You ungrateful little—”

“No,” Stan said, louder now. “You don’t get to call me that. You’ve spent years controlling everything. Not only my image, but also my words and my relationships. But I’m not your damn puppet.”

Randy looked like he wanted to yell, but Stan didn’t let him.

“I’m not your legacy, dad. I’m your son. And you lost me a long time ago.”

He turned before Randy could respond and walked down the steps.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Randy’s voice bellowed after him. “You walk off this set, you’re done! You hear me? You’re fired!”

Stan didn’t stop.

“You’re nothing without this show!”

Stan kept walking.

“You’ll regret this, Stanley!”

But the only thing Stan felt as he left the farm behind was relief. He didn’t regret it. Not even a little. He got into his jeep, hands shaking slightly as he turned the ignition. The road stretched out in front of him. But at the end of it was Kyle.

And this time, Stan wasn’t going to let him go.

…

The last thing Kyle expected when he checked his phone that evening, crumpled on the couch, wearing sweatpants, and halfway through a bag of off-brand pretzels, was to see Shelley Marsh trending on TikTok.

He squinted at the screen, assuming it was some fan-edited clip of her looking fierce in the background of Making It with the Marshs. But then he saw her username (@ShelleyUnfiltered) and blinked again. It wasn’t a fan edit. Shelley herself had posted a video.

He tapped play.

Shelley sat on the floor of her bedroom, no glam team in sight, just a loose ponytail, baggy sweatshirt, and her usual dry expression. But her tone was anything but bored.

“So here’s the deal,” she began. “I read that article. The one by Kyle Broflovski. And I felt something. Because he’s right. About a lot of things. Especially about the way the media treats people like garbage for entertainment.”

She paused, like steadying herself.

“But I wanna talk about how the media treats women. 'Cause it’s not just garbage, it’s fire, and we’re the ones getting burned. When a guy sleeps around, he’s a 'ladies’ man' or 'a catch.' When a woman does it? Suddenly she’s a slut, a bitch, a manipulative whore.”

Shelley looked right into the camera.

“I’m done with that. You should be too. So here’s the challenge: I want a new word. Something powerful and badass. A name for women with game that doesn’t reek of misogyny. Let’s call it something better. Something we own. Drop your ideas in the comments. Let’s burn the double standard to the ground.”

She ended the video with a mock salute and a faint smirk. “#RenameTheGame. Let’s go.”

The video had over 1.3 million views in just a few hours. The comments were flooded with suggestions, laughs, and heartfelt reactions. Even Kyle had to admit, the stoic Marsh daughter was kinda cool when she let herself be.

Bebe came bouncing out of her bedroom, phone in hand, eyes wide. “Did you see what Shelley posted?”

“I’m literally watching it right now.”

“She’s got a point.” Bebe slid onto the couch beside him. “Also, this is lowkey her being inspired by you. That article of yours is still floating all over Insta.”

Kyle frowned. “Well, it didn’t change much for me.”

Bebe nudged him. “You’re talking to Stan again. That’s something.”

“I guess.” Kyle hugged his knees, unsure. “But it doesn’t mean we’re okay. Not really. And it definitely doesn’t undo the damage.”

Before Bebe could answer, his phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number.

Kyle stared at it. “Ugh. Probably another reporter looking for a soundbite about my ‘affair.’”

Bebe gave him a sympathetic look and went back to scrolling.

He swiped to answer anyway. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice answered, calm and pleasant. “Hi, is this Kyle Broflovski?”

“…Yeah?”

“This is Claire Jennings. I’m an editor at the The Sound Tribune. We’re a smaller newspaper based just outside Seattle. Do you have a minute?”

Kyle’s heart immediately dropped into his stomach. “Look, if this is about me and Stan Marsh—”

“Oh no, not at all,” Claire cut in quickly. “I’m not looking for gossip. I actually wanted to talk to you about that article you uploaded. The one you wrote from your personal perspective.”

“…What about it?”

“I thought it was excellent,” Claire said plainly. “Honest but also introspective. It hit all the right nerves. And it made me think you might just be the kind of writer we’ve been looking for.”

Kyle blinked. “Wait. Are you saying…”

“I’d like to offer you a job,” she said. “Full-time. Not an internship. You’ve clearly got the chops, and more importantly, you’ve got a conscience. That’s hard to find these days in journalism.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” she said kindly. “Sleep on it. If you’re interested, give me a call tomorrow. We’re not some media giant, but we’re growing, and we could use someone like you. Think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Kyle said, still stunned. “Thank you. Seriously. This means a lot.”

As he hung up, his phone still pressed to his cheek, he turned slowly toward Bebe, who watched him with growing curiosity.

“What was that about?” she asked.

Kyle could barely contain his grin. “It was…a job offer. From a real newspaper.”

Bebe’s jaw dropped. “Shut up.”

He shook his head, feeling lightheaded. “She said she liked my article. And she wants me to write for them. Like, really write.”

She screamed and threw a pillow at him in celebration. “Kyle, that’s huge! You’re gonna be okay! Finally!”

He let himself laugh, for the first time in what felt like weeks. “I might actually be.”

…

The walls of Kenny’s apartment were paper-thin and smelled faintly of takeout and the lemony floor cleaner he overused. Stan lay on the old couch, arms folded behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling. The past few days had been a whirlwind of press hounding him at his penthouse, camera flashes through car windows, and his name being hashtagged with Kyle Broflovski like they were a trending brand.

Kenny, ever the loyal friend and part-time therapist, tossed him a soda from the kitchenette. “You can’t hide out here forever, you know.”

Stan caught it with one hand and cracked it open. “Watch me.”

“You’ve had Kyle’s address for days now.”

Stan didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The crumpled Post-it note sat on the table like it had been mocking him all week. He’d read the address so often it was burned into his brain. He had no excuse. Bebe had given it to Shelley, who gave it to him, hoping he’d do something useful with it.

Kenny leaned on the counter, arms crossed. “You’re a grown-ass man who just walked off a hit TV show and told Randy Marsh to fuck himself. But you’re scared to knock on one door?”

Stan sighed, pulled out his phone, and stared at the empty screen.

“You’re right,” he said. “But I’m not just showing up. I’ll ask first.”

He tapped a message out with shaky fingers.

A couple of minutes passed before the screen lit up with Kyle’s reply.

Stan let out a small laugh through his nose.

So Stan stood. He felt his heartbeat quicken. “I’m going.”

Kenny didn’t even try to hide his smug smile. “Took you long enough.”

The crowd of reporters outside Kyle’s apartment complex was smaller than usual but still aggressive. As soon as Stan stepped out of the car and pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, he heard the click-click-click of cameras and the usual barrage of questions.

“Stan, are you and Kyle dating?”
“Are you staying over?”
“Is this your way of confirming the rumors?”

He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, pushing through them like a boulder through weeds. He hated it, he hated the noise, the scrutiny, the invasion, but if it meant seeing Kyle, it was worth it. They didn’t follow him past the front gate; even paparazzi had their legal limits.

He knocked. The door opened within seconds.

Kyle looked tired but handsome, wearing a plain hoodie and jeans, his curls uncombed and his expression uncertain but soft. “Hi.”

Stan stepped in. The tension bled from his shoulders the moment the door closed behind him.

Bebe waved from the couch and gave Stan a wink before disappearing into her room with a cup of tea and loud music, granting them privacy without needing to be asked.

Kyle motioned toward the tiny hallway. “Come on.”

Stan followed him into the cramped bedroom that smelled like bergamot and old books. The bed was barely bigger than a twin, shoved against a bookshelf and a desk. Stan looked around, then looked at him. “You live like a college student.”

“I practically was one,” Kyle said with a wry smile.

They stood in silence for a beat before Stan stepped closer.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Kyle held up a hand. “Don’t. It’s not your fault that the paparazzi are fucking jackals. You didn’t tell them to camp outside my place or throw my life under a microscope.”

“Then why didn’t you publish the article? You had every reason to.”

“A lot of reasons. Not just you. I didn’t want to become what I hate. I didn’t want to hurt people to climb up. And… because I didn’t want that to be how our story ended.”

Stan’s throat tightened. “I left the farm. And the show. I told Randy I was done. For good.”

Kyle’s head snapped up. “Wait—you what?”

And Stan laughed when he finally let the pride leak into his voice. “Yeah. I stood up to him. I walked out. No more ‘Making It with the Marshs.’ No more lying to the cameras.”

Kyle smiled a big smile. “I’m proud of you.”

“I couldn’t keep living a lie.”

“Well. Since we’re on a roll with life updates... I’m moving to Seattle.”

“Wait, seriously?” Stan blinked.

“I accepted a job offer. The editor called me back this morning. I start next month.”

Without missing a beat, Stan asked, “Can I come too?”

Kyle blinked, then let out a short laugh. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” Stan answered earnestly. “I just know I want to be where you are.”

Kyle’s breath hitched. “Stan…”

“I love you.”

And Kyle stared at him, then reached up. His fingers brushed the edge of Stan’s sleeve like he couldn’t believe he was real. “I love you too, idiot.”

And then their lips met—soft and certain, a kiss that tasted of lost time and new beginnings.

In the middle of a tiny bedroom, beneath a shelf stuffed with books and a wall covered in old movie posters, everything finally felt right.

…

One month later, the Seattle apartment still smelled like fresh paint, new furniture, and the faint vanilla scent from the candle Stan insisted on lighting every night. It wasn’t much, only two bedrooms (one converted into a study), a modest kitchen, and a balcony that faced a tree-lined street, but it was theirs. No cameras or stage directions. No Randy Marsh. Just them.

A light drizzle coated the windows that morning as Kyle sat curled up on the couch with a mug of coffee and his laptop balanced on his knees. The apartment was quiet except for the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard and the faint sound of Stan brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

Kyle had grown to love these slow, ordinary mornings.

His job at The Sound Tribune, a small but steadily rising independent newspaper, turned out to be better than anything he’d dared hope for. His editor, Julia, was smart and honest and had a sharp sense for truth-telling. She trusted Kyle with meaningful stories, let him pitch what he wanted, and pushed him to dig deeper, not to exploit, but to understand.

He was writing more human pieces now. Less scandal, more substance. Last week, he wrote about a group of high schoolers building eco-conscious shelters for the unhoused. The week before, he interviewed a retired ballet dancer starting a community program in South Seattle. He’d even been asked to write a personal column every other Sunday.

And it showed. Kyle looked lighter now, more at ease. The dark circles had faded. He wasn’t jumping at every phone call anymore. He was, slowly, healing.

From the hallway, Stan emerged in sweats and an oversized hoodie with Rainier College across the chest. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he carried a bowl of cereal like it was a holy artifact.

“You’re awake and working? It’s Saturday.” Stan flopped onto the couch beside him, making Kyle’s coffee slosh dangerously.

“I had an idea for a piece. Figured I’d get the bones down before it disappears.” Kyle tilted his laptop away from Stan’s cereal trajectory. “Also, someone’s gotta pay the bills, Mr. College Freshman.”

Stan smirked, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Hey, I’ll have you know I turned in my first political science assignment yesterday. That’s real work.”

Kyle chuckled. “Yeah, okay, Socrates.”

After all, Stan had decided to enroll at Rainier College just two weeks after their move. He wasn’t totally sure what he wanted to study, political science was a tentative first choice, but he wanted to try. Not because Randy told him to, or because the cameras would love a redemption arc, but because he wanted to build a life he could be proud of.

He’d been attending classes in-person and online, surrounded by students who didn’t care about his last name or the show he used to be on. Stan was loving it.

“I’m thinking we hit that indie bookstore this afternoon,” Stan said as he munched cereal. “I saw on their Instagram they’re doing a poetry reading night. Could be fun.”

Kyle raised a brow. “You want to go to a poetry night?”

Stan grinned. “I’m trying to culture myself. You’re rubbing off on me.”

At that, Kyle smiled, and for a second just looked at him. It still felt unreal sometimes. Not the part where Stan Marsh loved him, that part had become beautifully normal, but the life they had now. The quiet, unglamorous, genuine one. They had plants, a weekly grocery list, a shared Spotify playlist with embarrassing additions. They had fights about dishes and long hugs after bad dreams. It was real.

“Huh,” Kyle suddenly muttered, brows furrowing.

Stan glanced up from his now soggy cereal. “What?”

“There’s a piece in Culture Current about your mom. And… wow. It’s actually kind of badass.”

Interest piqued, Stan set the bowl aside. “What’s it say?”

Kyle turned the screen toward him. The article was headlined:

“From Reality Wife to Reality Rewrite: Sharon Marsh Talks Divorce, Reinvention, and Power Moves.”

It included excerpts from a new interview Sharon had given to promote her own talk show, Sharon Speaks, which had quietly premiered two weeks ago and was already gaining traction for its honesty and unexpected charm.

“She talks about how her divorce from Randy is ‘a chapter she needed to end with fireworks,’” Kyle read aloud, “and how being married to a media mogul while living on-camera for most of her adult life nearly suffocated her. She says—and I quote—‘I gave America my family. Now I’m taking myself back.’”

Stan blinked. Then a slow, stunned grin spread across his face. “No fucking way.”

Kyle laughed. “There’s even a picture of her in a red suit looking like she’s ready to dismantle the patriarchy.”

Eyes wide, Stan leaned over the laptop. “Holy crap. She actually did it.”

“She did,” Kyle said. “And apparently the show’s pretty good. She’s got that segment called You Can Say That Again, where guests vent about things they were never allowed to say out loud on TV before. She even roasted Randy’s golf swing last week.”

Stan barked a laugh and sat back against the couch, then exhaled visibly. “Good for her. God, I’m glad she finally got out.”

“You talk to her lately?”

“Yesterday. She’s… lighter now, you know? She said she’s making decisions for her for the first time in forever. She even got a cat.” He chuckled. “Some tiny, angry fluffball she named Bisquick.”

Kyle snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Stan leaned his head against the back of the couch and gazed up at the ceiling. “She deserves this. She put up with so much crap for Randy’s empire. For the show and for us. And now she’s finally just… Sharon.”

Kyle was about to say something when another notification popped up.

“Also,” Kyle said, reading from a TVNow industry article, “Shelley’s apparently muscling her way into Making it with the Marshs’ production.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yup. She threatened to leave the show too, right after you and Sharon dipped. Producers freaked. Randy caved.”

Stan laughed, shaking his head. “Of course she did.”

“She’s already working with the showrunners. Word is she wants to make it less exploitative and more nuanced. Some execs are calling her difficult. Some are calling her brilliant.”

“She is difficult,” Stan said, fondly. “But brilliant too. That’s Shelley.”

Kyle closed the laptop and rested it on the coffee table. “You okay?”

“Yeah. It’s weird. This used to be the stuff that stressed me out. Family drama, production meltdowns, scandal. But now it just feels… distant.”

“You’re not numb?”

“Nah. Just not in it anymore.” Stan looked at Kyle and his smile softened. “I’m really glad we’re here. That we have this.”

Kyle nudged his knee. “Me too. And I’m glad your mom and Shelley are pulling through.”

“They’re badasses,” Stan said proudly. “Honestly, the women in my family are the real powerhouses. I just got the cheekbones.”

Kyle laughed and leaned over to punch him in the side. “Bullshit. You got more than that.” He then leaned back on the couch and sighed happily. “I think I like our life.”

Stan looked over at him. “Me too.”

He reached out and laced their fingers together, resting their joined hands on the blanket between them.

Outside, the Seattle rain kept falling, gentle and steady. Inside, Kyle closed his laptop. The article could wait.

This, this little morning in their little apartment, was exactly what he’d always wanted. And somehow, after everything, it was exactly what he got.