Chapter Text
“Tell me, Stan. Why the fuck would you do that when she was right there?”
It feels as if Stan has walked seven hundred and two miles, throughout the entire earth, on his knees, begging for forgiveness. And he wept and cried, for seventy-two days straight. And for seven of those days, he lied in bed forever still.
The whiskey on his breath was strong enough to make a small boy dizzy, but he was hung onto it for so long that he was worried that if he let go he’d fall. He’d arrive everywhere as a simple skeleton of his own body, his own brain. Every thought he had was immediately swallowed down into nothingness, and that’s what he was. A bunch of nothing.
Stan always tried his best not to mention Kyle too much, and he found himself cursing at his own mind when curly red hair would flash before him. The memory of him taking his awkwardly long fingers and running them through the strawberry-scented entanglement was enough to make him feel full for once. Whole of himself. In that moment, he was something, and it felt good. Stan doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this kind of devotion. Stan wishes for his skin to be Kyle’s skin, and for him to be trapped under it, and slowly dissolving into him, and pulsating along with the beat of his heart. And he wants Kyle to grab and shake him and say, “you're mine, you're my own, we are one in the same, come move into my chest, come rearrange what's left inside of me, I breathe for you so let me do it on your terms. Take my heart, take it, I'm afraid of it.”
He probably would’ve let Kyle kill him as long as it meant he’d be the last person he’d ever physically contact. If he had a knife in his hand, Stan would bare his neck on instinct. He probably wouldn’t even bring his hands up to stop Kyle from thrashing against his ribs. He probably wouldn’t even mind. He’d let Kyle take him apart in the same way a child would dismember and detach the pieces to their toy, to comprehend the mechanics of his interior.
Stan makes jokes at his own expense because he figured that was enough, as long as it made the people around him laugh. Because that’s what his whole life is. Funny. Everything’s fucking hilarious, nothing bothers him anymore because shits just too funny and ironic for him to feel any negative way about it.
And right now, he’s tucked in the backseat of a car that’s probably moving too fast. He’s laid against all three seats, with his head and neck supported by the door to the left. There’s a crack on the window across from him. The cars’ moving fast enough to make the feeling of nausea rise from beneath him. Stan and car sickness go way back. Best friends. When did Kenny get his license, anyway?
His lips are dry, so fucking dry that it’s kind of amusing. He pokes his tongue out in a lame attempt to moisturize them. They still taste like him. He breathes out through his nose, once, and he finds himself giggling. What the fucks so funny about dry lips? Stan wishes he knew. Or maybe it’s not funny at all, and the weeds just messing with him. That’s probably it. Weed makes him laugh, and he’s laughing right now.
Fucking breathe. Nothings wrong, nothing happened. He’s just high.
“What’s so funny?”
Stan just keeps laughing. Harder, now. He thinks about the question for a second and realizes that he doesn’t even know what he’d respond with, anyways, because everything and nothing is funny at the same time. He’s surprised Kenny isn’t laughing too. Just look around, it’s all uproarious.
“Stan?” Kenny inquires.
He licks his lips again. Once, then twice for good measure. “M’yeah?” And— fucking yuck, his mouth is also unbelievably dry.
“I asked why you’re laughing.”
No you didn’t, Stan wants to say. That’s totally different from what he said the first time. Kenny asked him what was so funny. What a pointless thing for him to lie about. Kenny is a liar. There’s been so, so many lies told around today from so many different people. It’s too much. Another word for lie is fib. Why do two words exist when they have the same meaning? Fib is a very stupid word, and would you look at that, Stan’s laughing again. He brings up his hands to cover his face.
“Liar,” He gets out between chuckles. Oops. That’s not what he meant to say. He wanted to say fib, because he wanted Kenny to laugh with him. He stops giggling to strain his ears in order to check if Kenny still laughed regardless. He didn’t. Infact, it seems like he ignored what Stan said completely, which makes Stan wonder if he even spoke at all.
“Why’d you do that at the party, Stan?” Kenny sounds kind of pissed, which is uncharacteristic for him.
“Do what?”
The brightness of the traffic lights contrast with the dark night sky. He watches as it flickers from red to green, and Kenny turns the car right.
“You seriously don’t remember?”
Why the fuck does Kenny keep asking questions? How ironic that that’s a question itself. Stan doesn’t laugh, though, partly because it’d probably be inappropriate considering Kenny’s tone and because Stan feels as if he's laughed so hard that nothing is funny anymore. Kind of like what had happened to Cartman that one time when they were younger. Stan drops his arms from his face.
The truth is, Stan remembers. He remembers what happened before and he remembers what happened after. He can almost perfectly recall what it was like in the moment. And he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t regret. It was amazing. So fucking amazing.
“I do.” He admits.
“You know Wendy’s real upset?”
“I do.”
The car is pretty silent now. Suddenly, Stan doesn’t feel all that high anymore. He wishes he did though. Maybe that’d make this whole conversation easier. He’s still drunk, though, and that’d be a good thing if it wasn’t so bad. He’s not supposed to be drinking anymore. But what the fuck else do you do at parties other than drink? It’s not his fault.
“You should apologize to her. And to Kyle, too.”
While Stan doesn’t get why he should apologize to Kyle if he’s the one who initiated it first, he decides to bite his tongue and just listen to Kenny’s advice. He’s most likely right, anyways. He usually is.
“‘Kay,”
Stan ends up zoning out for the rest of the ride, which apparently, was a long time, since Kenny is pulling into his neighborhood now. The lights on Stan’s front porch are on along with the yellow-tinted street lights.
Kenny comes to a stop right in front of Stan’s house. He does not pull into the driveway. Through the window, the TV is still running in the living room, playing some movie of sorts, but it’s unclear whether or not anyone’s actually sitting at the couch watching it.
The two of them sit silently in the car for a couple of seconds. Perhaps thirty.
“Are you still drunk?” Kenny cuts through the silence. His gaze flickers up to look at Stan’s face through the rearview mirror.
“I don’ think so.” His words slurring into each other say otherwise. Stan wonders if Kenny is disappointed in him. Stan’s disappointed in himself for sure. He’s trying to tell himself he isn’t.
“I’m gonna walk you to your door, okay?”
Kenny should get home. It’s late, and Karen always complains that she doesn’t like it when he gets home late. “You don’t needa’ do that for me, don’t waste your time.”
“Stan,”
“What?” He lifts his head, the motion causing him to wince slightly at the world moving around him.
“I’m walking you to your front door.” Kenny Mccormick is stubborn, he always has been.
“Okay.”
Kenny moves first, opening the car door and stepping out before making his way to the side where Stan lays and opening the door for him. Stan swivels his body around to sit upright. He steps out of the car and wraps his arms around his chest to protect himself from the unwelcoming cold.
So tired. Stan is so unbelievably tired, and it’s weird how he’s just now noticing that. He wants nothing more than to curl up into his bed and sleep. Forever.
Based on the way he walks with a slight speed to himself, it’s clear that Kenny is kind of tired too. Or he’s just stressed, or maybe he’s just impatient. Stan struggles to keep up, which is funny because isn’t Kenny supposed to be walking with him to make sure he gets in the house safely? His logics all fucked up, and that makes Stan laugh again. Except it doesn’t feel good like it did earlier when he was high. It feels suffocating and desperate, and Stan fucking hates it. Because now he thinks he’s crying, too.
He’s fucked up. For real this time, and he doesn’t know what the hell he should do about it. He hasn’t seen Kyle since he kissed him and Wendy grabbed Stan, pulling him away. He isn’t even sure how Kyle’s gonna get home tonight. Is he still at the party? Is he by himself? Stan should be there for him. He’s probably bored out of his mind hanging around random people. Stan knows him so well. It’s like they were made for eachother. But Stan killed a very beautiful plant once by giving it too much water. So he knows from experience that love, itself, is harmful.
Stan could blame it on the alcohol, but he knows that would be a lie, and so would everyone else. He would’ve kissed Kyle sober.
Kenny is leaning against the side of his house. And he’s just looking at Stan. He isn’t saying or doing anything. And that’s enough to make Stan want to punch him. That’s also how he knows he should probably go to bed. But Stan has not taken his keys out of his pocket and he isn’t even sure if he put them there or not. It’s too late at night for this shit, and it’s too cold for February, the month of love.
Finally, Kenny speaks. “Are you gonna be fine by yourself?”
Stan wants to be angry at him so bad. Why the hell wouldn’t he be? It’s not the fucking past anymore, and he doesn’t need to be on suicide-watch. It’s stupid. Everything is shitty and just complicated.
It’s stupid. So stupid. He raises his head to make eye contact with Kenny, who looks like he does not want to be here, in this situation, at all. And yeah, Stan feels bad for putting another burden on him. But it’s not like he wants to deal with himself either.
So, he fixes his posture and steps forward past Kenny. Stan is trying his best to stop crying, and he is not succeeding at all.
“I’ll be fine, Ken, I just need to sleep.” Stan mumbles, digging in his pockets to look for his house key. He pulls the key out and shoves it into the lock, twisting it and hearing the small click of the door unlocking. The door creaks as he opens it.
“Drink some water, okay man?”
Stan turns to face Kenny and nods his head before entering his home. Kenny begins to walk off back to his car.
“And Stan?” Kenny calls over his shoulder. Stan looks up. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Stan says, “okay.” Even though he knows Kenny probably didn’t hear him. He turns and shuts the door behind him. He listens to what Kenny told him to do and makes his way to the kitchen.
He opens the overhead cupboard and blindly grabs whatever glass he feels his hand first touch. Stan walks over to the sink and fills the cup up with tap water because even though he doesn’t like the artificial taste of tap-water, he couldn’t be bothered to make his way to the pantry and pull out a plastic bottle of spring water. All that plastic harms sea-animals, nonetheless, and Stan does not want to contribute to that, as small as it may seem.
The house is silent and pretty dark except for the fluorescent lights of the living room television. There’s an ad promoting a nearby dentist office playing on it. Stan focuses on the gentle noise as he takes in his lone surroundings.
Once the cup is half full— or half empty, depending on “how you look at it”, he turns off the sink and brings the glass to his lips, taking one long gulp. Stan’s mouth is no longer dry, and oh boy, is he grateful for that.
He repeats the same process he did beforehand until he feels like he can drink no more. Stan also isn’t crying anymore. He sets the glass down in the sink and makes his way upstairs.
The stairs no longer screech when he steps on them like they did when he was a child, thanks to his fathers house-flipping obsession not too long ago. This makes Stan able to walk up them without worry his parents will wake up and start questioning him. God knows Stan cannot take anymore questions right now.
It takes him a second to reach the second floor though, with his balance off-kilter from drinking. He hasnt had to go through this in a while. Two years of sobriety down the drain, but what does he care?
Entering his bedroom, the first thing on his mind is how desperately he wants to take a shower. The least he could do is be physically clean.
Stan opens his closet door and rummages around in search for a change of clothes. He lands on a pair of dark green plaid pajama pants and a band-tee. Gathering everything in his arms, he makes his way to his bathroom. The light in there is flickering annoyingly. Stan places his belongings on the floor and turns the tap on.
Reluctantly stepping into the shower, the cold water makes him take a step back. For whatever reason, the only thing in this house that Randy didn’t fix is the water heater. Stan almost makes a mental note to bring that up to his father so he can fix it, but he knows he’d probably end up fucking it up, therefore getting rid of the idea.
He ducks his head down, allowing the water to run through his hair. He reaches for the shampoo bottle and squeezes some into his palm. He tiredly leans his back against the shower as he rubs the product into his hair. A bit of it gets into his eye, and that is only made worse when he brings down his hand, which is also covered in shampoo, to rub his eye. He silently curses at himself.
While he’s in the shower, he tries to think of some ways to dig himself out of this hole he’s currently in. He finds himself concluding on just talking to the two of them in person. In which, he is not all that excited to do, especially because there’s no guarantee that Wendy, specifically, will forgive him. He could ask Kenny for advice, but he’s dealt with enough of Stan’s shit as is.
The water seems to warm up as his time in the shower increases, but that might just be his mind. He turns his head downward and rinses the cleanser from his hair comfortably. Stan decides against using conditioner, simply because he’s too tired to. He cleans his body pretty half-assed, but it’ll have to do because Stan is one hundred percent sure if he stays in here any longer he’ll think “fuck it,” to himself and fall asleep in the shower.
He turned off the water in advance of getting out. And for a few seconds, Stan just stands there, in the middle of his bathroom, and tries to take in all the events of this whole day. Wendy is definitely pissed and Stan should do something about that as soon as possible. He’ll text her before he goes to sleep. See? Look at him, making progress. He can fix things by himself. He’s nearly eighteen, for fucks sake. People need to start having more faith in him.
He slips on his clothes and brushes his teeth for probably not long enough. Stan lazily ruffles a towel on his hair, and it gets it dry enough for it not to be a nuisance to him. He stealthily walks through the hallway when the dark figure of his mother makes him stop in his tracks.
“What are you doing up so late?” She interrogates gently. There is a slight rasp in her voice from what Stan assumes is from just waking up.
The TV is no longer on, and that leads Stan to wonder if she had fallen asleep while watching and was on the couch without Stan noticing.
“I was at Tolkien's house. It was a party for his, uh, older sister. She’s leaving for college.” Stan says, and technically it’s not a lie, because he’s partially telling the truth.
She smiles languidly. “Tolkien has a sister? That’s nice.”
Stan presses his lips into a thin line, nods, and slowly continues walking towards his room.
“Don’t be up too late. Your father has work in the morning. Goodnight, Stanley.”
He mutters a goodnight in return. He hears the door to his parents room close behind him as he steps into his own. He tosses his dirty clothes into his hamper, grabs his phone, and finally— lays down in bed. He drags his hands across his face in agitation.
Stan turns over to his side and curls up into the fetal position. He’s supposed to be doing something right now, or talking to someone, but he’s too fatigued to remember. Or care at all, really.
His previous shower has woken him up, and now Stan has energy he’s in the mood to burn. Being high doesn’t sound too bad right now. Weed makes him sleepy sometimes, which is good because Stan wants to go to bed anyway. And sometimes it makes him hungry; which is also good because Stan hasn’t eaten in a while. Fuck, he already brushed his teeth. It’s fine. He can brush them again. He’s already moving to retrieve the weed from his closet floor.
Once he has everything, he moves his position to his desk, but he doesn't sit down in the chair. Stan steadily splits the wrap down the middle, then he proceeds to tuck the cannabis into the center. His fingers tremble as he does so, causing some of it to fling away.
“This is shitty,” Stan mumbles.
Using his thumb and forefingers, he rocks the wrap back and forth to shape it. He seals the joint and passes a lighter flame along the seam. He takes one good look at it. It’s a pretty ugly joint, considering he did it quickly whilst in the dark. He brings the joint with him as he goes to open his window. Stan sits back on the bed, his back against the headboard and the left side of his body against his wall.
He’s well aware that the window won’t be enough to dissipate the pungent smell of weed, but he figures if push comes to shove, he could blame the smell on his father.
Stan takes one long drag before breathing back out. He repeats this action multiple times until his eyes feel droopy. Even when they do, he doesn’t stop the repetitive motion. All that’s on his mind right now is Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, and how utterly relieving it was to finally clash their lips together. The same moment, repeating forever inside his head. It was as if everything around him contorted into nonexistence.
Stan’s thoughts continue to trail through, and he finds himself wondering how Kyle’s doing after everything. He never got to talk to him. He’s curious if Kyle feels as happy as he does. So, he calls him.
The phone rings once, twice, and then five times prior to the call automatically hanging up on itself. Stan figures it was stupid of him to assume that Kyle’d be awake at this time. He takes another hit and watches as the smoke dances around his room.
He sits like that for a couple seconds, until he feels his phone buzzing beside him, Kyle’s contact lighting up his screen. Overcome with such uncanny happiness, he nearly topples over clicking the accept button.
“Kyle!”
“Hey, Stan,” Kyle greets, as if everything is totally normal between the two. And that’s just how Stan likes it. Kyle has always been one to keep his cool under fire. It’s so familiar and predictable that it makes Stan feel exuberant.
“Dude, I’m sorry for what happened at the party. I’ve been a shitty friend for not reaching out earlier,” Stan isn’t sure if the fact that he’s high is making it easier to talk, or if he just feels at ease with Kyle.“Can you come over?”
“No, it’s late. You know my mom would kill me if I left the house at this time.” Kyle laughs as he says this. And he’s right. Stan has seen Sheila freak out more times than he can remember. “But, um, Stan?”
“Whassup’?” He drawls. Stan spreads his legs out in front of himself and turns his head up to stare at the dent in his ceiling. He’s always deliberated where that dent came from in the first place.
“Is Wendy mad at me?”
Stan closes his mouth, that was apparently, hanging open loosely. No wonder his jaw started to hurt. It all begins to dawn on him.
Right. That’s what he was forgetting. He was supposed to text Wendy and apologize for this whole situation. But she’s probably sleeping, there’s no point in texting her now. He’ll just deal with it later. But either way, he doubts that Wendy would be mad at Kyle.
“Nah. I think she’s mad at me.”
“You haven’t talked to her?” Kyle sounds dumbfounded. Stan knows that if he were with him right now, his brows would be furrowed and he would have that stupid little glare in his eyes. Holy shit, Kyle’s eyes.
“Your eyes are truly something else,” Stan mutters.
“What?”
“‘M sorry.” he replies quickly. “No, I haven't talked to her yet.”
Kyle remains so quiet that for a moment Stan wonders if he’s fallen asleep. Kyle lets out a hum of acknowledgement.
“Well you should,” he almost whispers. “You have to stop treating people like that.”
Frankly, Stan is sick of people telling him what he should and shouldn’t do when it comes to Wendy. She’s his girlfriend, damn it. He knows what he’s doing. Just give him a moment to fucking breathe.
“Like what?”
He hears movement on the other end of the line. As if Kyle is repositioning himself on the bed.
“Like they don’t matter.”
Stan feels really tired now. It's a combination of both the weed and this long ass day. The dire need for sleep is abruptly a very important need for Stan. So he decides that that’s what he’s going to do. He’s going to go to sleep, and when he wakes up everything will be fine.
He puts out the almost-finished joint and then wraps his arms around himself. He’s high out of his mind. High enough to convince himself that none of this actually happened. And for now, that can be enough to make him feel better.
“I’m gonna go to sleep, Ky.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight,”
“Goodnight.”
And with that, Stan hangs up the phone. He picks it up and places it down on his windowsill, where it will stay until morning. Stan lowers himself down under the covers, and he swears it feels like he’s laying in a cloud right now.
It’ll all be fine in the morning.