Chapter Text
In the small, infamous, town of South Park, surrounded by snow-capped peaks and lush pine forests, Stanley Marsh found himself in Walgreens, a basket in hand, with thirty-two dollars and fifty-six cents to his name. Of course, he had to thank his poor excuse of a father for that, constantly stealing from him when he couldn't from his mother, but it didn't stop him from saving up. He had been stashing it away in the pocket of one of his countless hoodies, hung in the back of his closet, for this long awaited moment.
Stan absentmindedly turns into an aisle in search of one last item, humming with a finger on his cleaved chin while thoroughly looking at the array of options. After a minute of browsing the shelves, scanning the prices with his sorry balance in mind, he stretches on his tippy toes to reach his desired choice.
"You know you could've just asked me to get it for you," Kyle Broflovski deadpans with his arms crossed.
He retrieves the item with little to no grace, close to falling over as he regains his balance, before dropping it into his basket with a shrug. He continues to walk down the aisle towards the checkout with no pause.
Kyle sighs as he follows behind him, analyzing the items in his basket: candles, incense, and a lighter.
"What are you buying all this stuff for, Stan?"
"I thought you weren't going to ask any questions." He stops in front of the cash register, placing down his basket with a loud unapologetic thump while the employee greets him.
"Yeah, but, dude, I thought you were going to buy a porn magazine or," he drifts off into silence.
Stan turns to him, following his line of sight, with furrowed brows, before landing on the alcoholic beverages. It left a sour taste on his tongue. He's about to say something, he doesn't know what, maybe to tell him that he's trying, but the cashier interrupts:
"That'll be $32.49, sir."
He turns his attention back to the cashier. "Fuck," he curses under his breath as he pulls out his leather wallet. He eyes the money inside with a downturned mouth. That's basically all his money. He didn't want to be flat out broke, but he should've kept count of the prices. Kyle then places a hand on his shoulders with a soft smile.
"I got cash if you need any," he kindly offers, but Stan shrugs his hands off.
"It's fine." He spits out while looking up to the cashier. Kyle slowly draws his brushed off hand to his chest, cradling it with the other, while pressing his lips tightly together.
"Can you remove the lighter?"
The cashier takes a moment to remove the item from the register before restating the price:
"That'll be $25.90."
Stan offers the little money he had leaving him with six dollars and sixty-six cents to his name. At least he had something besides a few pennies, he mused to himself as he shoved the change into his jeans.
"Would you like a receipt?"
He grabs the bagged items then hurriedly walks towards the exit, leaving Kyle to say 'no thanks' before rushing after him. "Dude, wait up!" It only takes him a few steps to follow his pace beside Stan.
"I could've paid for it."
Stan doesn't turn his head. "I rather you don't," he picks up his pace despite his smaller legs, shoving his free hand into his pocket for warmth.
"But it's not a big deal."
"I didn't need it anyways."
"Still— I could've paid for it myself but then I would be broke," Stan blankly states to put the conversation to rest.
He's beginning to regret letting Kyle tag along, but he had begged him to join. There was no use to complain now. A part of him missed his company. It's not Kyle's fault he was a mess, constantly irritated with an attitude, but that's why he had been keeping his distance, amongst other correlating things.
"Then you could've just bought a smaller lighter," he quips. Stan stops in his tracks before turning to him, irritation imminent in his tired expression. Kyle barely halts in time, merely inches from his face with wide confused eyes and raised bushy brows.
"Dude, it's fine, I'll just steal one of my dad's shitty lighters!" He voices with a stern, exasperated, tone. "He wouldn't even notice it's missing, so drop it."
Kyle opens his mouth to retaliate before slowly closing it as he watches Stan walk away. He stands still, hands deflated by his side, staring at the back of Stan's head, his grown unkempt hair sticking out of his dirty beanie, for a moment. Kyle would've easily walked away. A part of him desperately wanted to, or at least scream back at him for his shitty attitude, but his heart ushered him to catch up to Stan— his super best friend.
Once again it takes a few steps to be by his side again. This time, they walk in silence, passing by humble folks, an occasional friendly face saying 'Howdy.' He was trying to be a better friend. It's hard, especially with his own temper, but he knew something was wrong. He hated himself for not knowing any better. He's nervously fidgeting with his hands as he asks, breaking the tension:
"What are you going to do with all this stuff?"
Stan shuts his eyes closed for a moment to calm himself, he's self-aware of his behavior after all.
"Why do you want to know?"
"You've been acting weird," he states as a matter of fact. "Weirder than usual, at least. Kenny, uh, told me you had asked him for a strange favor."
Stan turns to him with narrow eyes, triggering Kyle to raise his hands defensively. "He didn't tell me what it was, though, honest, but he's worried about you, dude. We all are— well, minus Cartman, but that's just, well, Cartman— you're our friend, Stan."
He doesn't say anything but redirects his eyes to stare at the sun-bleached, cracked, sidewalks.
There's nothing for him to say or deny.
Kyle sighs. "You've been," he pauses, unsure if Stan is even listening to him at this point, "You've been distant."
Stan keeps his head down, his shoulders and neck tense. He wanted to run away from Kyle as if his words were going to slap him. Kyle would probably do that himself if he ran. Thankfully, their houses were a few blocks ahead.
"You can't possibly think I wouldn't notice. I thought, maybe, you were having one of your moments again. That you needed space, but, that space, it just keeps on growing."
…one of your moments…
He clenches his fist. That's one way to word it. Stan begins to pick up his pace, he doesn't want to hear any of it. Kyle didn't know what he was talking about, of course he didn't, Stan made sure he had everything contained to himself. He thought it would be best if he was the one to figuratively walk away much like how he was doing now rather than having Kyle walk out on him again.
Before he's able to walk down the path to his house, Kyle grabs Stan by the elbow with gusto, effectively turning his head to finally meet his eyes for what felt like the first time in weeks.
"Stan," his eyes are wide and uneasy, genuinely filled with worry for him. It floods him with a sense of guilt. "If there's anything, I mean anything, wrong, you'd tell me, right?"
Stan wavers under his gaze before turning his head away. He couldn't stand looking at Kyle. That's why he didn't want him to tag along in the first place, desperately trying to keep his distance from him until he fixed his problem. That's the whole reason why he was saving up in the first place. He tightens his grip on the bag of goods, fingertips turning white from the pressure, before forcibly returning the intimate eye contact.
"Yeah," he mumbled. "We're super best friends after all." He offers a wobbly smile to reassure him.
"Yeah, we are, aren't we?"
He nods before pulling away.
Kyle can't help but keep his arm in the air, reaching out for him, with a sad smile. He knew something was up with Stan. It was a slow progression, something he tried ignoring until it was too late. Now he felt far away, growing farther with each step he took towards the entrance of his home.
"Super best friends," he whispers.
Stan can feel his eyes on him as he retreats into his house. He closes the door behind him, not daring to look back, before rushing up the stairs.
"Stanley," his mother, Sharon Marsh, calls after him from the kitchen, causing him to stutter on the steps.
"When is Kyle coming over? I haven't seen him in ages." His heart sinks.
"I don't know, Mami, he's been busy," he shouts as he steps onto the second floor. His mother's response falls on deaf ears as he approaches his room.
In one swift moment he swings his door open before closing it shut behind him with his back, leaning on it with all of his dead weight. He deeply exhales as he drops his head to regain his composure. Unaware of his sweat-sheened face of anxiety.
"It's alright, Stan," he whispers. "Everything will be better, once I get this over with, it'll be okay again."
He looks up into his dark, eerie room, curtains blocking the afternoon sun rays, with hazy vision for a moment, resting his body against his closed door.
It has to work," he mumbled as he pushed himself off the wall. "You helped me once, I just need you to help me one last time." He meanders towards his disheveled bed, spilling the candles onto his covers as he drops the plastic bag.
There's 6 candles and a pack of incense— Micheal told him it would help with the ambience, whatever that meant. He lays down, with a candle in hand, eyeing it with furrowed brows.
"This better work," he shakily exhales