Chapter Text
During lunch break, most students headed to the cafeteria, where they could grab that mystery meat slop and line up at the tables to eat. Where they sat, however, was a definitive marker for the social hierarchy of North Park High.
Yes, North Park. Since South Park is such a small town, it doesn't have its own high school, so it’s common for students to head to the neighboring town: North Park.
Stan’s group had already grown used to that routine, and they always sat in the same spot: the third table on the left, near the emergency exit. Stan, Kyle, Eric, Kenny, and Butters were together today—which wasn't exactly rare, but it was always entertaining:
“... And then they found the band-aid inside the rice cooker, it was a total shitshow,” Kenny was recounting his shift at the Asian restaurant. “I think my boss knew it was mine.”
“Holy shit,” Kyle had eaten his sandwich almost without thinking because he was listening so intently. “And then what? You could’ve been fired, man.”
“I know, we kind of just found the band-aid out and threw more hot water in the pot,” Kenny explained. “The rice turned into complete mush. If you guys go to City Wok today, don’t order anything with rice. Okay?”
“Geez, Kenny… But rice is, like, half the menu,” Butters looked pretty worried.
“I’m pretty sure that violates about three health codes… and labor laws too.” Kyle crumpled the brown paper from his sandwich and looked to his side, expecting moral support from his best friend, but found it only at the top of a blue pom-pom hat.
Stan was hunched over, his nose nearly touching his phone screen, practically in a trance. The muffled sound of a TikTok audio escaped like white noise. Kyle felt that familiar prickle of irritation.
“Stan?” Kyle called. Nothing.
Eric, from across the table, let out a nasal snicker. “Heh, Stan’s tweaking. Watching car racing videos again.”
Kyle rolled his eyes and, without thinking much, simply shifted his tone—it wasn't a shout; it was that dry command of someone who knows they will be heard.
“Stan, put that shit away.”
The effect was instantaneous. Without questioning, without complaining, and without taking his eyes off the void for even a second, he slid the phone into his jacket pocket with a fluid motion. He let out a heavy sigh—that look of absolute boredom one gives when they've just been scolded by their mother—but he didn't even consider defying the authority.
He just leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and looking at the redhead.
“Fine, I put it away. What were you saying about the termination?” Stan asked, his voice drawn out and obedient.
Kyle blinked, his sandwich stalled halfway to his mouth. He expected a "my bad" or a "wait a sec," but Stan’s immediate, silent submission left a strange spark in the air.
Since that little ‘incident,’ Kyle realized that Stan was a peculiar and somewhat curious creature.
He caught himself giving Stan other orders—simple things—and his obedience was so cute it was almost irritating. One day, after an exhaustingly long basketball practice, Kyle was exhausted and had been unlucky: he had slipped and fallen on his ass about three times because his teammates kept tripping him.
When he was in the locker room, pissed off, he slammed his locker door so hard it echoed. Beside him, Stan was zipping up his jacket with that bored expression people get after a moment of relaxation (Kyle didn't quite get how anyone could relax playing football, but whatever).
“You’re limping,” Stan, also known as Captain Obvious, noted.
Kyle glared at him. The sight of him there, all cleaned up and smelling like Old Spice, looking like a total pillar of calm, only made him more pissed. He gritted his teeth:
“I fell, Stan. I fell because Miller is a fucking idiot and didn't cover me,” he grumbled, resting a hand on his hip. “Stan. Come here and untie my shoes. Now.”
It was a ridiculous command. He had only just tied them, but he wanted to see.
Without hesitation, Marsh dropped to his knees on the floor between Kyle’s legs. With those large, calloused fingers—the fingers of someone who had been gripping a football without gloves since he was ten.
As if by magic, he untied the laces. Kyle looked down at him, seeing the top of the blue hat there, feeling a strange mix of triumph and confusion.
He expected Stan to laugh. To tell him to go fuck himself or something, but Stan was there, actually obeying, and putting himself on his knees—a position naturally linked to a submissive figure. Something no one there would expect from Marsh.
“Done,” Stan looked up without standing. “Do you want me to take your shoes off too, or did you just want the knots undone?”
That bored face… it wasn't disinterest. It was a weird sort of surrender.
Kyle felt his face heat up. “No,” he crossed his arms. “Tie it. Tie them again.”
And so he did. First the left foot: pulled the laces, made the knot, and finally, the bow. Then the right foot: pulled, knotted, bowed.
“Anything else?”
Kyle narrowed his eyes, looking away. “Tsk… no. You can get up.”
Another day, while they were walking to the bus stop, Cartman opened his backpack and shoved his fat, round hand inside, rummaging until he huffed in annoyance: “Fuck, I left my snack in my locker!”
Nobody paid attention, as usual, because Kenny and Butters were sharing headphones and watching a K-pop documentary, while Stan and Kyle were out of patience.
“Stan, go back and get it for me!”
The dark-haired boy looked up. “What? Why?”
“Because you run faster than me, and because you’re my friend, go and get it for me.”
Kyle looked at the two of them discreetly. If Stan had turned into some submissive servant, maybe he was willing to take orders from everyone. But if so, there would be no fun in that.
“Go yourself, fatass. Use the chance to burn some of that lard,” Stan replied, his voice dripping with disdain.
An almost sickly pleasure rose in Kyle’s chest. So, the “magic” wasn't that Stan had become too nice; it was something specific to him.
Cartman started screaming and whining in the middle of the sidewalk, calling Stan an honorary Jew, selfish, and several other insults they chose to ignore. They kept walking, Stan’s broad shoulders lightly brushing against the redhead’s arm with that same irritatingly calm pace.
Broflovski decided to deliver the final blow, just because he realized he could:
“Stan,” Kyle let out a tired sigh. “My backpack is super heavy. My shoulders hurt… I hope the bus gets here soon…”
The dark-haired boy stopped instantly. “Want me to carry it for you?” He didn't even wait; with his large hand, he grabbed the backpack and slung the strap over his shoulder, on top of his own. “It’s not even that heavy, I got it.”
Kyle stretched his arms, yawning with a wide, satisfied grin. “Very nice, Stan! Thank you.”
And that praise made Stan melt. Because there, the thank-you wasn't just common courtesy; there was a tone of approval that felt right. Then, he returned to his usual state of boredom.
Kyle noticed. He felt like he had control over every drop of dopamine passing through the brain of that tall, strong boy.
When the bus arrived and they sat side by side, ready for the twenty-minute trip home, Kyle looked at Stan and had a wicked idea. He was shorter than Stan, but at that moment, he felt giant.
“Come here, Stan,” he murmured, gesturing with his hand.
Marsh leaned in slightly, as if ready to hear a secret, almost by instinct. Kyle raised his hand and gently reached for the nape of his neck, his fingers lightly touching the dark hair peeking out from the hat, petting him, using his nails to graze the scalp:
“Good boy,” he said, his voice low and sweet, the way he would probably talk to a dog. “That’s it, taking care of my things… you’re such a helpful big boy, aren’t you?”
Stan froze. He felt like he was going to throw up (in the good way). The shock, the touch—he turned the color of a beet. If it were anyone else doing that, he’d probably break their wrist. But he felt so adored, so useful, that he slowly pulled off his hat, allowing Kyle to touch him better.
He didn't say a word.
But Kyle understood.