Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stan sat with his hands wrung in his lap, feeling his knee start to shake against his will. He kept his head down, for the most part, unable to bring himself to look Bebe’s parents in the eyes. He’d been sitting on that damn bench for almost two hours, and yet he’d barely opened his mouth longer than the amount of time it took to offer his condolences. People were crying, and some even insisted that Father Maxi extend his sermon for Bebe’s sake. The man, of course, had obliged, and Stan’s visit to church that Sunday morning had lasted longer than he could physically handle. 

He dared to spare a glance in Roger and Marsha’s directions, his chest tightening almost painfully when he realized the extent of their grief. He certainly didn’t miss the way Marsha’s shoulders heaved with silent sobs, her husband comforting her while Father Maxi delivered his prayer. He swallowed, thickly, wincing when he noticed how dry his throat was. Stan had been instantly transported back to Scott’s funeral, his mind replaying nearly crystal-clear images of Ellen’s crying face. It stemmed from the same, horrible sense of guilt that was spreading through him at an alarming rate. 

He tore his gaze away after he pictured Bebe’s lifeless body, cold and emotionless, her expression cursed with eternal neutralness. He just needed to survive Father Maxi’s speech, and after this, he would raid his father’s liquor cabinet. 

But the longer he sat there, listening to the man spew on about God’s plan, the less he began to believe that there was supposed to be someone looking out for him. Was this God’s plan for him? Have him dead center in the middle of two murders? At seventeen, having him question if he’ll ever be forced to choose between his family or prison?

He swallowed again, and the back of his throat burned with a sob evoked by his emotions, threatening to escape and convey just how broken he really was. Stan found himself wishing he could be on better terms with his friends, with Wendy, because the thought of someone hugging him made his bones ache with longing. But he didn’t want to grieve, not really, not when he felt like he didn’t deserve it. So Stan pushed down that feeling, like he did with everything else, and took in a shaking breath as he finally lifted his head. 

“...I… think we can all collectively agree that South Park has seen brighter days,” Father Maxi’s voice reverberated off the speakers lining the church’s walls. Stan blinked, but didn’t look away. “We’ve experienced horrors no one person should ever witness, let alone fathom, and in these last two weeks, I’m more than certain how many of you are feeling lost. Hopeless…”

Stan finally turned away at that, resisting the urge to look behind him as a few members in the crowd began crying, softly. They were trying to be quiet, out of politeness for the Father, but a part of Stan wanted to hear them— he wanted to hear their sorrows, their rage— because that was another thing, another wave he felt pass through him; the only emotion he fed on that was stronger than his guilt. He was so angry. 

“But in the words of Psalm 34:18,” Father Maxi cleared his throat, and Stan watched his grip tighten around the edges of the lectern. “‘The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit’.” He inhaled, deeply, and Stan just knew that the Father was trying to convince himself with his own words. “So be not afraid, for God is always willing to listen, and in due time, I believe we can all heal from this darkness.” 

Stan thought he had misheard the sound of his mother sniffling. He would have missed it, if not for the dead silence ringing in his mind. He glanced up at her, though he quickly regretted it when he caught Randy’s sharp eyes. He felt his breath catch in his chest and he faced forward again, pretending that he’d been listening the entire time. 

He could still feel his father’s stare burn into the back of his head, but Stan tried to block it out, opting to focus on glancing around the crowd, trying to discern who was more affected by Bebe’s death than her own parents. 

He spotted Wendy a few rows away from him, and his gaze lingered on her trembling frame. The look on her face was distant, tears causing the whites of her eyes to shine like glass. His knee twitched with the urge to stand and go over to her, but he never made a move to leave his seat.

Randy cleared his throat this time, causing Stan to snap his eyes forward once more. The bench creaked when his father leaned closer, muttering, “Stop screwing around. This is important.” 

“Sorry,” Stan murmured back, his voice barely audible over a whisper. He sat up a little straighter on instinct, eager for Randy not to get too upset. 

Randy said nothing more to him, but Stan didn’t dare let his gaze wander again. It stayed trained on Father Maxi, and he finally noticed the beads of sweat sticking to the man’s forehead. He couldn’t imagine having to address a crowd like this, being solely responsible for providing comfort. He supposed that even if he was questioning his faith, he held an acute sense of respect for the man. 

The rain had finally stopped overnight, but the town was left drenched in a layer of fog that stretched high over the bordering mountains. Stan didn’t think he would ever see the sun again, and he was sure that he had a part to play in that, too— somehow. The ground was wet and mushy beneath his feet, mud clinging to his sneakers that he had tracked into the church.

“Ah, Christ,” Randy swore under his breath, the moment Stan and his family stepped outside again. They were among the first to notice the sea of reporters waiting on the curb of the street, their microphones drawn like swords. They were still a little ways away from the actual property line, though only separated by the Cemetery— which was Stan’s next stop. 

“Goddamn vultures,” Randy growled with resentment, before he glanced at his son. “You comin’, Stan?”

The quarterback only realized he’d stopped moving once his father’s harsh voice cut into his ears. He perked up, shaking himself out of his trance. “Um— you guys go, I’m gonna…” He trailed off, his eyes drifting around the dispersing crowd to find Wendy. 

Randy followed his gaze, and Stan only heard him let out a curt ‘whatever’, before he and his mother turned to leave. Luckily, Stan had driven himself there, and he was relieved that he didn’t have to cater to anyone else’s pace that day. 

With a short exhale, Stan watched his breath cloud in front of his face, and waited for it to evaporate before forcing his legs to move. His hands found their way into his pockets, seeking warmth while he trudged down the muddy path and weaved in between headstones. His mouth was still dry, but there were words clawing painfully at his chest, and he needed to get them out.

He stopped just beside Wendy, though his eyes were fixed on Scott’s headstone, skimming along the wording engraved below his name. Beloved son and friend. He repeated the phrase in his mind as if he were reciting a poem, though it didn’t ease any of his regrets. 

Stan risked his focus shifting onto the grieving girl. He let himself breathe, because he had to. “Wends...a-are you—”

“I know you are not about to ask me if I’m okay, Stan,” Wendy beat him to the punch, her voice strained, yet firm with warning. She raised her head, and Stan could see the bags under her eyes. “My best friend is dead…”

The quarterback visibly deflated at her rejection, but he quickly schooled his expression, feeling his hands clench into fists inside his pockets. “...Yeah, I, uh… kind of know how that feels.”

Wendy didn’t look at him again, but Stan could tell that his words had affected her. He didn’t blame her for being short with him, he was just glad that she didn’t smile and nod like everyone else would. 

“...I’m sorry,” He added anyway, because he needed to say it to someone— her, most of all— since he might have been the exact reason why their friends were both six feet under. Even if she couldn’t know that. 

Wendy nodded, the movement faint but visible, even when the rest of her body seemed so rigid. She sniffled and reached into her pocket, pulling out a pack of tissues that was nearly empty. “We all are.”

Stan didn’t agree with that. He gave a small shake of his head, resisting the urge to step closer to her. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about—“

“I left her there!” Wendy cut him off again, her tone turning sharp and almost desperate. She clutched the tissue in her fist like a lifeline, and Stan lapsed back into silence. “...She told me to go, and I did… we never go anywhere alone, why— why did I listen to her?” 

Stan was struck speechless, unable to even begin forming a reply. He felt like he was in the locker room with Clyde all over again. Wendy kept sobbing quietly, holding the tissue under her eyes to catch her tears. 

She didn’t avoid Stan’s gaze, though she found it hard to look straight at him. “Don’t tell me I’m not guilty. I’m as guilty as the rest of this town is, for not doing anything to stop this.”

The quarterback just kept his mouth shut, letting her speak and inwardly agreeing. He knew that if given the opportunity, Wendy was more than capable of hunting down whoever was doing this on her own. He also knew that if she were to discover his secrets, she would certainly bring him to justice.

He watched her stuff her tissues back into her pockets. She still didn’t look at him, but her voice no longer wavered as she spoke. “There’s a killer out there, Stan,” She reminded him; reminded them all. “And sooner or later, we’re all going to pay for our negligence.” 

Stan nodded his head; he didn’t know how to dispel her fears. He didn’t know how to tell her that they were only in this mess because of him. Wendy sniffled, but said nothing more. Stan wasn’t blind, he could read the room. 

“...I’ll call you later, alright?” He muttered, and he hoped that he wouldn’t be too fucked up to backtrack on that promise. 

The cheerleader gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, though her eyes had remained glued to Scott’s headstone. Stan wondered what was going through her mind in the moment— aside from the overwhelming sense of helplessness that he’d been feeling since this entire thing began. He knew that whatever he was going through, others had it worse. Stan wasn’t close to Bebe like Wendy was, and hell, at this point, he was starting to question whether or not he was ever that close with Scott. 

He murmured a second goodbye, and something about Wendy getting home safe, before turning on his heel and trudging down the path again. His gaze drifted over the small crowd that had formed outside of the church, glancing between each crying face as if they held the power to haunt his dreams. The news vans parked along the curb only served to solidify their grim reality; South Park would soon be known for something other than its scenery, and Stan wouldn’t be surprised if they never received any tourism again. 

He let out another long sigh, breaking eye contact before any of the reporters decided to try and approach him. He really wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hold back— he’d been itching for someone to yell at. 

He felt something akin to relief when he spotted a familiar group of faces gathered behind a tree, and Stan pivoted, switching his course to approach his friends. He could see how tense they all were, even from where he was. It was almost like an aura— dark and foreboding, emitting the same unknown that he’d been facing for weeks. 

Tolkien was the first to notice him, lifting his head and pushing off from where he’d been leaning against the tree trunk. His movement had caused Craig’s and Kevin’s heads to swivel towards him, and suddenly, Stan felt too exposed. His hands curled back into fists, a safe gesture to keep him from losing his composure. 

“Hey,” He greeted the trio, slowing to a stop right beside Kevin. He threw a glance around the tree, taking note of where the nearest adult was. When he faced his friends again, Tolkien was holding a joint out. 

“Here,” He motioned for Stan to take it. “Aerosol courage.”

The quarterback huffed softly and accepted the joint, bringing it up to his lips and taking a long drag. He could feel the effects of the drug wash over him almost instantly, a sense of faux bliss, like a heavenly balm on his soul.

“Where’s Clyde?” He inquired, as he handed the joint off to Craig.

“Where do you think?” Tolkien retorted, leaning back onto the tree again and letting his head rest against the bark. “Holed up in his bedroom with the door locked.”

Stan frowned at that. “Seriously?”

Tolkien nodded, his face grim. “Stopped by his place on my way over here. He wouldn’t talk to me.” 

Stan glanced at Kevin and Craig, but their expressions all said the same thing. His breath clouded in front of his lips once more. “Shit.”

He couldn't even begin to imagine that scene; Clyde, the normally headstrong, all around goofball suddenly reduced into a shell of himself. Stan was half glad that he hadn’t come to church that morning; he wasn’t sure if he was ready to see him like that. He’d remembered what it was like to console him in the locker room, but at least then, Clyde had been talking.

A beat had passed before Craig jutted his chin to the right, gesturing in the direction of the gravestones. “How’s Wendy?”

Stan perked up a little, inhaling gently as he was pulled from his thoughts. “Oh, she’s, uh…” He trailed off, before giving a weak shrug of his shoulders. “You know.” 

Craig responded with a tight-lipped smile, as he took the joint back from Tolkien. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Stan echoed, and his gaze dropped down to the mud beneath his feet. He drew a line with the front of his shoe, absentmindedly, only looking up again when Tolkien passed him the blunt. Stan took a second hit, and then gave it to Craig. 

“You guys think he’ll show tomorrow?” Kevin questioned, tucking his hands back into his jacket pockets. He looked skeptical, as the rest of them were.

Craig blew a puff of smoke from his lips, before taking another long drag. “Dude, even his parents skipped Maxi’s sermon. I doubt he’ll ever leave his room again.”

Tolkien’s hand shot out, giving Craig’s shoulder a small punch. “Don’t be a dick. Have some faith.”

Stan actually smirked at that, before he could stop himself. He took the joint off of Craig’s hands, inhaling a large puff of his own. “If this town had any more faith, we’d all implode.”

Craig let out a small chuckle from his comment, although Tolkien looked even more dejected than before. Stan coughed on some of the smoke, turning his head away and passing the blunt back to the captain. 

“I think the real question is if Clyde will play without Bebe there,” Craig folded his arms over his chest, his dress shirt wrinkling slightly. “Kickoff was only delayed by a week. I don’t know if that’s enough time for him.”

“It’s not enough time,” Tolkien said, and his brows creased into a hard look. The hits he took were small, and the blunt was soon back in Kevin’s hand. “It’s been three days of this shit, man. I’ve never seen him like this, not even when Rex died in fourth grade.”

“Well, this is— arguably worse,” Kevin chimed in, taking a double drag of the joint, and Stan didn’t blame him. 

His eyes lifted back up to the curb, and the parking lot just a few yards away. He could see some reporters stopping and talking to people on their way to their vehicles, with most of them immediately getting shut down. He was glad that some of South Park’s residents had the decency to turn them away; he couldn’t say the same for others. Half of him wondered if he would be approached, too— and the thought made his stomach churn. 

“Holy shit— Yates is here.” Tolkien spoke up, drawing each of the boys’ eyes up and over to the church doors. Stan couldn’t help the way his muscles instinctively tensed, spotting the detective chatting with Father Maxi; he wielded a pen and notepad in his hands, jotting down keywords and gathering statements. 

Craig let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff, and Stan knew exactly what was going through his mind. South Park hadn’t had a single moment of peace since Scott went missing, and now, the terror seemed to be never ending. And what was worse? The only reason Yates wasn’t getting anywhere was because of him. 

He stuffed his hands back into his pockets, clearing his throat softly and turning to his friends again. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, I’m gonna head home.”

Kevin perked up at this, and he reached out to give Stan’s shoulder a pat. “Stay safe, man.”

Stan offered him a faint grin in response. “Yeah, you too.” He then nodded to Tolkien and Craig, if only to extend the sentiment. They nodded back, although a subtle understanding passed between them all. Were any of them really safe?

Stan kept his eyes trained on Yates the entire way to his car, thankful that he could only see his back. He had no doubt that the man would pull him aside if given the opportunity, so he made sure there wasn’t one. He quickened his pace and finally averted his gaze once his Jeep came into view. 

“Thanks Tom, and here we are again in wake of a brand new tragedy, revisiting the small little mountain town of South Park, Colorado— where just three days ago, a teenage girl’s body literally dropped from a banner during a school pep rally. More to follow on the details, but right now, I want to bring you all in for an exclusive look inside the devastation this town has faced— with some of its residents hopefully up for a quick interview!”

Kyle felt his nails dig into the skin of his palms, watching with a heavy heart as the reporter on the screen had the nerve to actually approach some of the locals as they were leaving church. He thought it was sick, capitalizing off of other people’s grief; though, he supposed that he should have expected Bebe’s death to gain traction. He was sure that the videos from the pep rally were already surfacing the internet, despite the police’s attempts to stop it. Not to mention, people trying  to make connections to Scott’s death— it was rehashing every bad feeling that Kyle had had since the beginning. 

“Excuse me, sir? Miss?” Kyle watched the reporter pester family after family, although he sat up a little straighter once she recognized Wendy Testaburger and her father on the TV. “Hi— Kevin Jarvis here with Channel 6 news—“

Before the reporter could even finish his question, Kyle saw Wendy rush towards the man before slapping the microphone out of his grip. He could hear the audio of the device clattering onto the pavement below, and the redhead couldn’t help letting out a small huff of approval. Wendy didn’t even give him the time of day, instead marching off with her father— presumably back to their car.

The reporter scrambled to pick up his microphone, apologizing profusely to the audience— though, once Kyle’s classmate was out of frame, he had no interest in watching anymore. He turned back to Ike, who had been hunched over the table while completing some of his homework. Kyle glanced down at what his brother was writing, and he rolled his eyes with a sharp sigh.

“Ike— stop drawing on the placemats,” He hissed, as he reached over the table and snatched the mat out from under his brother’s notebook. He ignored Ike’s whine of protest, scoffing, “What are you, five?”

“I’m bored! You’re making me do homework on a Sunday, what did you think was gonna happen?” Ike exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a burst of frustration. He dropped his pencil onto his notebook, where several math equations remained unsolved. “How much longer do we even have to sit here, Ky, I’m supposed to be on beat saber with Filmore!” 

“I told you, it’ll take however long it takes. And you’re not alone, all right? I plan on working on my essay when we get home later.” Kyle insisted, casting Ike an exasperated look. He set the mat down on the other side of the table, releasing a small huff. “Just because you didn’t know Bebe doesn’t mean you can just dismiss what happened. People are grieving.”

“And it sucks, I’m not saying it doesn’t,” Ike shook his head, pure desperation to play video games shining in his eyes. “I just don’t see the point of us sitting here if we can’t even go to church with them. Why can’t we grieve at home?”

Kyle forced himself to take a deep breath, lest he rip his little brother a new one. “Because, Ike, I promised I’d meet everyone here after they got out. And, because— Mom doesn’t want you home by yourself.” 

“I’m not a baby, Kyle! I can handle being in a house without my brother around!” Ike argued.

“Not the point,” Kyle shook his head, feeling a familiar sense of agitation start to rise within him. He wanted to argue that there was a murderer on the loose, that Ike couldn’t possibly understand the severity of it; but he simply sighed instead, “Just– sit still, for christ’s sake. The guys will be here soon.” 

Ike groaned in exhaustion, but Kyle brushed it off as he picked his phone up off the table. He scrolled through his notifications, checking for a text from one of his friends. As he skimmed over each contact, his eyes inevitably stopped on Scott’s name. A pit dug itself into his stomach, fear beginning to fester once more beneath his ribs like it never truly left. It would always be in the back of his mind— taunting him, everything he’d withheld from the cops in favor of keeping a secret that could quite possibly wind him up in jail. 

The thought of Stan being terrorized by the same person, hiding behind their dead friends’ face, almost made Kyle sick enough to the point of confessing to Yates. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on, sweeping all of this under the rug. That was the problem; because even when Stan had insisted that he was fine with talking about it, he still had yet to say a single word to Kyle since Thursday night. 

He glanced down at Stan’s name on his messages, noting how far down the list he’d been. Kyle clicked on it, pulling up their most recent conversation– the quarterback had asked where he was after the lockdown had lifted. With a shaky inhale, Kyle’s thumbs hovered over his keyboard, trying to work up the courage to send him a text. 

But what could he say? What did he even want to say? How was he supposed to start that conversation? 

The motion of a tray being set in front of him suddenly ripped him from his trance, and Kyle turned his phone away as if he’d been caught. His head snapped up, meeting the somber gaze of Mr. Tweak. 

“It’s on the house, son,” The man said, gesturing softly to the tray, which was loaded with two coffees, and a bowl of cream and sugar. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.” 

Kyle forced a small smile onto his lips, though any shred of genuineness he could have felt had already been torn from him. “Thanks, Mr. Tweak…”

His friend’s father cast him a similar smile in response, before stepping away and tending to his other customers. Kyle let out a soft sigh, reaching over to help himself to a mug. 

Ike glanced up again, eyeing the tray like an order of french fries. “Can I have some?” 

Kyle only shot him a deadpan glare.

Tweek chose that exact moment to slide into the booth across from him and his brother; the blonde was already shaking, but Kyle didn’t protest when he reached for the other coffee. He was sure that it had taken him a great amount of effort for him to even go this long without it.

“S-Sorry, Ky— my dad has me working overtime,” Tweek explained, not even wincing as he began sipping the scalding hot drink. Kyle scoffed gently and looked over at Ike, who was finally back to his homework, likely trying to tune both of them out. 

“I can’t believe you guys are still open,” He said to Tweek, his voice a little sulky while he dumped two packets of sugar into his coffee. “All of main street is basically shut down, don’t your parents ever take a day off?”

Tweek made a noise that sounded like a laugh and a scoff, and his hands gripped his mug like a lifeline. “U-Unless you’ve got a million bucks, t-this place would stay open through a hurricane.” 

Kyle huffed at that, because in all honesty, he wouldn’t put it past the pair; Tweek’s parents had some of the best coffee in the entire town, and while he was surprised that they were still receiving a steady flow of business, he wasn’t complaining. 

“Have you heard from the guys?” He asked his friend, letting his brows crease almost subconsciously. 

Tweek’s eye twitched as he took an especially large sip of his drink, and he set the mug back down in favor of pulling his phone out of his apron’s pocket. Kyle watched him scroll for a beat, before he met his eyes once more. “No— n-nothing yet.” 

Kyle sighed again, his body slumping back against the cushions of the booth; he wasn’t sure what was bothering him the most, now— the anxiety of something horrible happening, or the guilt from lying to his friends. He felt nauseous, that same mixture of sickness and fear rising within him like a flash flood. He was worried— he was terrified— still waiting for the other shoe to drop, because he knew, now, that Scott’s death was only the beginning. 

And the only person he could possibly talk to about it was avoiding him like the plague. 

Just then, Tweek and Kyle instinctively perked up when the door opened, hearing the soft chime of the bell that rang to indicate a new customer. Kyle’s head swiveled around with a new sense of hope, but it was crushed within the blink of an eye when he recognized who had stepped into the shop. 

The other boy paused, too— David’s dark gaze zeroed in on Kyle like he had just walked in on him changing. He paled a little, tugging down the hood of his jacket to reveal the rest of his cropped, black hair and annoyingly-perfect tanned skin. He made no move from his current spot, but Kyle could feel the air shift with tension, along with Tweek’s knowing eyes bouncing between them. 

It wasn’t long before Tweek downed the rest of his coffee, and then he pushed himself to his feet. “G-Gotta get back to work, sorry Ky—!” He spoke a little too quickly for the redhead to even protest. 

“Tweek—!” Kyle hissed after the blonde; he was nowhere near prepared to talk to David so soon after the pep rally— but Tweek was already behind the counter before he could even threaten him. Kyle’s jaw clenched with reluctant resignation, and when he heard David’s footsteps thud against the tile floor nearby, he knew he couldn’t just get up and run. 

His grip tightened around his coffee mug, watching him appear at the table through his peripheral. Ike’s pencil stopped scratching upon him noticing the new presence, much to Kyle’s dismay. He caught his brother’s questioning eyes, and he glared at him, a silent plea for Ike to keep his mouth shut.

“...Hi, Kyle,” David’s tentative voice then punctured the silence, forcing the redhead to finally acknowledge him. 

His lips curled into a polite grin, but the gesture didn’t quite reach his eyes as they gave him a once over. “...Hey, David. Um— h-how are you doing?”

Ike was still watching them with keen interest, but avoided his older brother’s wrath by staying quiet. David gave the kid a small smile in greeting, and Kyle thought that he would explode right then and there. God, this was awful. He would take being invisible as a superpower in a goddamn heartbeat. 

“I’m…okay, all things considered.” David replied, his tone taking on a slight, sorrowful edge, even with the strained smile he used to disguise it. “...How about you? A-And your friends, are they—“ 

“They’re okay,” Kyle confirmed with a quick nod, although he couldn’t quite speak for them all. “We’re okay, we’re just… processing, you know?”

David nodded along with him, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I— I get it.”

Kyle finally let go of his coffee mug, pushing it a little further away from him as he cast a glance in Ike’s direction. He caught his brother’s curious gaze, and his lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. Ike turned away, his pencil scribbling furiously against his notebook, but Kyle was already pushing himself out of the booth, anyway. He’d be damned if his brother would be privy to the conversation with his kind-of-crush. 

“So— are you going to school tomorrow?” He asked David, folding his arms comfortably across his chest as he rose to his feet. David seemed to take the hint, and he followed Kyle as they stepped away from the table, away from Ike’s prying eyes.

He raised his eyebrows, attempting to remain composed. “Uh, yeah— yeah, I think my parents would send me back to court if I refused, so…”

Kyle let out a small huff at that, his lips twitching upwards despite himself. “Yeah… makes sense.”

David offered him a similar look, undoubtedly tense as he nodded again, an instinctive gesture. There was a brief beat of silence that wafted between them, only until the taller boy cleared his throat and motioned towards the counter. “Can I— buy you a drink?”

Kyle’s grin stuttered into a real smile for a moment, though his arms clenched tighter around himself. “Oh, uh— no, thanks, Mr. Tweak’s got us covered,” He said, jutting his chin back to his table, where his mug still lay steaming on the surface. 

“Ah— friends and family discount,” David mused, attempting to lighten the mood if only for a few minutes. “Must be nice having the world’s greatest coffee at your fingertips.”

Kyle laughed again, a breathy sound, like he was too afraid to do it normally. It still didn’t feel right, having everyday conversations as if the universe wasn’t closing in around him. “Yeah, it— definitely has its perks.”

David flashed him a toothy grin, the first real expression Kyle had seen from him since he’d walked in. His lips parted like he was going to say something else, but when the bell above the entrance door chimed again, his chance was robbed. 

And, suddenly, Cartman’s grating voice filled the air like a pathogen, more pungent than Kyle was used to. “That’s why your mom still buys wet wipes, Kinny— every time you open your mouth, shit comes out.” 

He turned just in time to watch his friends all file into the coffee shop, still dressed in ironed shirts and slacks in favor of the church’s dress code. He couldn’t help the slight sense of relief that bloomed in his chest, even if he could feel David stiffen beside him. 

“Yeah, well, at least I have the decency to shut my mouth every once in a while,” Kenny fired back, looking every bit as pissed off as he usually did in Cartman’s presence. His eyes scanned the cafe until he noticed Kyle. “There’s Ky.”

“Guys, hey,” Kyle greeted the trio, before he dared take a glance in David’s direction, sensing his hesitation to even stay in his spot. 

Cartman had his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, strolling up to the pair as if he owned the joint. He cocked a brow at David, “Who’s this clown?” 

Kyle sneered at the other boy, not even hesitating before flipping him the bird. When he responded, he spoke more towards Kenny and Butters. “You guys have met David, right?” 

David gave a little wave of acknowledgement, instantly thrown back to the events of the lockdown. Kyle almost felt nervous for him. 

“Yeah, we have,” Kenny replied, his pinched tone immediately returning in the other boy’s presence. “How’s it going, Davey?”

Kyle cringed at the nickname, hearing Kenny’s ulterior attitude as if he were already holding back an insult. David brushed the jab off as his expression faltered, into something unmistakable as a frown. “Uh— I’m all right. You?”

“Peachy,” Kenny didn’t miss a beat. 

Kyle locked eyes with Butters, exchanging the same wary glance. It was obvious how false their answers had been, but neither of them were about to point that out.

Instead of instigating any further bloodshed, David cleared his throat gently, turning to Kyle. “I guess I’ll, uh… see you at school tomorrow?” 

Kyle offered him a slight smile, nodding again to allow him a moment of reprieve. “Yeah— see you tomorrow.”

David lingered for a beat, as if he were going to thank him aloud, before he excused himself and headed over to the counter. Kyle kept his eyes forward, out of respect like he was intruding on David’s coffee order. Though, he was sure he’d get it from Tweek later. 

Kenny raised a brow in Kyle’s direction, and in response, the redhead tilted his head with an unimpressed look. 

“Come on, Butters, you’re buying,” Cartman then nudged the shorter boy in the ribs, crowing with delight, probably from some bet that he’d won on the way over. 

“Ow,” Butters winced but hurried to follow after Cartman anyway, “Wait, Eric— I only have five dollars!”

Kenny watched them go, but took the chance to pull Kyle aside, out of earshot from their friends. The protest was clear in the redhead's eyes, but Kyle didn’t fight him. 

“Dude— what was that about?” He asked, his eyes alit with both suspicion and pride. 

“Nothing,” Kyle answered, quickly, before Kenny had the chance to make a joke. He knew he would hear it from him eventually, because the skeptical look on his face was painfully obvious. “How was church?”

“Boring, meaningless, depressing— doesn’t matter,” Kenny brushed his question off with a shrug, determination seeping into his eyes. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, nodding towards where David was picking up his coffee. “What happened? Did he ask you out again?” 

Kyle let out a sharp sigh, already feeling flustered and angry. “Kenny—“

“Because if he’s crossing a line, I can call Yates to come get his ass—“

“Dude. Please,” Kyle shut down that notion as fast as he could. He felt his heart jump at the volume of his own voice, and he shut his mouth just as David was passing by. 

He cast the other boy a fleeting smile and wave to be polite, and to apologize for his friends’ incessantly rude behavior. Thankfully, David happily returned both, even under Kenny’s watchful and disapproving eye. 

Kyle waited until he was out the door before turning back to his best friend. “He’s not a psychopath, okay? He’s just— I don’t know,” He trailed off, shrugging tightly while he fought to put chaos into a full sentence. “Traumatized."

“So is half of this town,” Kenny was quick to point out, although by now he’d lowered his voice to match Kyle’s. “I mean, seriously, Ky— you can’t give him a pass just because he’s hot.”

That pulled some heat to Kyle’s cheeks, and he bristled. “I’m not giving him a pass, Kenny, I’m just saying that his story checks out!” He shot back, his tone growing defensive. 

Kenny pulled a face of incredulity. “Are you trying to tell me you did research on this guy?”

Kyle tossed his arms up with a sound that mocked his friend’s expression almost exactly. It seemed like Kenny couldn’t decide between supporting him and ripping on him. “You’re the one who told me not to go in blind! So, yes, I looked him up— and that teacher is expected to make a full recovery!” 

He remembered everything he’d searched as soon as he went home on Thursday; he couldn’t forget the images from the news report that were seared into his brain along with his own regrets. Mr. Larsen, the man was— and David had been right, he’d suffered injuries from blunt-force trauma to the head, a broken neck, and three broken ribs. The doctors had placed him into a medically induced coma— but Kyle didn’t bother digging around for the more detailed pictures, the mental image of it was enough to scar him. 

It was an accident, he had to keep reminding himself. David had been honest with him, and he’d admitted over and over again to being regretful. If Kyle couldn’t believe in anything else, he could at least believe in that. 

Kenny backpedaled upon noticing his friend’s mounting irritation. “Okay, fine—“ He raised his hands in mock surrender, “Maybe you’re right, but— I don’t know, dude, this whole thing just gets under my skin. What if he’s got anger issues or something?”

“Are you serious? David’s anger issues are the least of my concerns right now.” Kyle retorted, just praying that Kenny would get off his back. “He’s been nice so far. He even offered to buy me a drink.” 

“So far,” Kenny huffed, which had earned him nothing but a hard glare from the redhead. He lifted his hands once more for good measure, like it could protect him from Kyle’s incoming anger. “What? You really think he’s gonna show his true colors a week after meeting you?”

“Of course not, but just because he made a mistake doesn’t mean he should be institutionalized,” He argued, his brows creasing tightly. 

“Kyle, a mistake is me buying gluten free beer for my dad.” Kenny threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure that their group was still the only customers in the shop. His gaze turned pointed when he looked back at Kyle. “David could have killed someone.”

“But he didn’t,” Kyle wasted no time in correcting him. “That guy’s going to be fine. It was a mistake, Ken— he didn’t mean to hurt anyone. So can we please drop it?” 

Kenny hesitated when he heard the plea lacing Kyle’s tone, and the redhead watched as the suspicion in his eyes rolled back with guilt. “…Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

“Thank you,” Kyle felt the tension seep out of his shoulders immediately— it was only one crisis-conversation avoided on top of hundreds, but it allowed him a moment of peace. 

Kenny flashed him an apologetic smile, his lips pulled into a tight line. Before anything more could be said, Cartman and Butters were returning with their own drinks, making a beeline for the booth next to Kyle’s. 

Now that the line was empty, Tweek was locking the register and quickly following them. “I’ve got a half hour, l-let’s go!” 

The remaining pair soon fell into step behind, and they headed back to their tables to wind down. 

Kyle moved on autopilot for the rest of the afternoon. He found himself doing that a lot; living his life with his mind completely detached from his body, and relying on instinct alone to get him through the day. It wasn’t much different from how he normally lived, except now, there was a constant feeling of impending doom hindering his soul. 

It felt like there was always something watching him, a silent threat looming in the air like a stormfront rolling in. South Park had seen enough rain already, and the season had barely begun— Kyle thought that if there was just one more storm, Stark’s Pond would overflow and flood the streets. In a way, it felt like that inside his mind, too. 

He strolled down the grocery store aisle with a blank expression, his thoughts millions of miles away as Ike ran ahead of him to grab his favorite box of cereal. Kyle wasn’t paying attention to whatever flavor his brother would be getting, he was more concerned with the weight of an incident promising to reveal itself. Kenny was talking to him, too— after he’d insisted he tag along with the Brovloski brothers to help ‘carry the heavy stuff’— but Kyle wasn’t even listening. His phone felt heavier in his pocket, like he was waiting for it; a call, a text, something that would inevitably come the moment he started to feel some sense of serenity. 

He was scared to close his eyes, scared that he would blink too long and miss something— another death, another cryptic message that would simultaneously threaten to dig up the darkest parts of his past— and if he were honest with himself? Kyle wasn’t sure which one would be worse. 

He wondered inwardly if Stan was feeling the same things as he was— he wondered why and how his arch nemesis was involved in this sick game, wondered if the stress was eating him alive from the inside out like it was him. 

But before his mind could spiral down that path again, Kenny’s voice cut into his thoughts, louder this time, “Hey. Where you at, dude?”

Kyle inhaled softly and finally blinked, if only to rid his eyes of the stinging ache. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, glancing over at his friend. “Sorry. I’m here, I’m just— I don’t know.” 

Kenny frowned at him, taking less than a second to observe Kyle’s odd behavior. “I was just asking if you’ve heard from your parents yet.”

Kyle’s chest stung a little at the mention of his family, but he gave Kenny a quick shake of his head. “No. I keep trying, but— straight to voicemail.”

The blonde offered him a sympathetic smile instead. “Well, maybe they have to pay for wifi on the boat,” He suggested, and Kyle could scoff if he wanted to; although nothing about his parents’ absence was worth a laugh. 

“Yeah, I think they’d rather throw themselves to the sharks,” He teased, his tone lacking any real bite. He slowed his strides to grab a box of granola, tossing it into the cart that Kenny was having a little too much fun pushing around. 

His upper body was draped over the top basket, with his hands clutching the sides to steer it through the aisle. Of course, every time they would pass another customer, he would straighten up and squeeze past— but Kyle paid little mind to it. There weren’t that many people out and about that day, anyway— most of main street’s crowd were church members, with the rest of the town being shuttered away inside their homes like doomsday had come. But Kyle couldn’t blame them if he tried. 

“I just— I don’t get it, why wouldn’t they try harder to call us?” His thoughts were sinking again, down into the depths of his anxiety, where he could drown if he wasn’t careful. “They have payphones on the boat— emergency lines to contact the mainland. Right?”

Kenny blew a hard breath between his lips, shrugging helplessly as he moved to dodge a support beam in the middle of their path. “Dude, I don’t know. I’ve never even seen a cruise ship— probably never will.”

“Well, there has to be,” Kyle said anyway, if only to reassure himself at this point. He glanced up from the floor, watching further up the aisle where Ike was debating between a box of Fruity Pebbles or Cocoa Puffs. “It just sucks, not having them here. Especially now.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Kenny agreed quietly, before folding his arms across the cart’s handlebar, pondering. “But Ike seems to be holding up okay, right?”

Kyle glanced over at him, before he stopped again to pull a package of napkins off the shelf. He turned back over to Ike, who was now clutching the box Cocoa Puffs under his arm, focused on the array of fruit snacks for sale. 

“I guess,” He shrugged half-heartedly, dropping the items in the cart and continuing on. “Honestly, we haven’t really talked about it much. I don’t think I even know how.”

“Then maybe Mackey’s therapy class will give you a few pointers,” Kenny teased, his lips curling upward with amused sarcasm. 

Kyle only let out a scoff, rolling his eyes hard enough to strain them. “Oh, Jesus christ, don’t remind me.” 

It was bad enough that he’d had to endure one session of mandatory grief counseling, but to think of how Principal Victoria would come back tomorrow after what happened at the pep rally? That nearly scared Kyle more than whoever was doing this. 

Kenny mirrored his scoff and leaned over the cart again. “I know, right? How do you even console something like that? Being a guidance counselor sucks.” 

Kyle shook his head just as Ike came bounding up to the cart, leaning over the side and letting the boxes topple out of his arms like dominoes. He placed his hands on his hips and backed up with a small smirk. “I’m done! Let’s go home.”

Kyle cocked a brow at his little brother, before reaching down to grab the fruit snacks. He held it back out to Ike, “Nice try. Go get the milk. Two percent.” 

In a second, Ike was scowling up at Kyle, before all but snatching the box out of his hands and turning on his heel. And despite himself, Kyle stifled a snort. Kenny, too, let out a small chuckle as he watched the kid storm out of the aisle. 

He straightened up, peering over the redhead’s shoulder while he pulled out his phone again. “All right, what’s next?”

Kyle took a brief second to scan the cart, mentally checking each item off the list in his notes app. He made sure not to count Ike’s backpack that nearly took up half of the space. “Uh— just need syrup, then we’re out of here.” 

Kenny nodded along wordlessly, pushing the cart wherever Kyle led. Only, the moment they rounded a rice krispies end cap display, both of the boys halted to a dead stop upon witnessing three familiar faces. Kyle’s muscles locked up again, his body thrown into something akin to fight or flight mode; he wasn’t sure which was more appropriate for a grocery store.

Craig, Tolkien, and Kevin all turned to look at them, but not a word was exchanged. Their own cart was filled with solo cups and enough snacks to feed a family of ten; it was perfectly clear how they were willing to spend their time off, whereas other people actually had some respect for the bereaved. 

The air was thick with unspoken anger— it was like a juvenile staring match, and they were all back in elementary school again. All Kyle wanted to do was scream at them, but instead— he worked his jaw and forced himself to walk away, because he knew if they started something here, that Ike could be involved. His little brother was the only reason he was able to simply turn on his heel.

Kenny wasn’t so eager to leave, but a pointed glare from Kyle was all it took to get him moving again. The cart’s wheels squealed in protest as he attempted to swing it around, and he swore under his breath when the edge of the basket scraped a nearby shelf. Kyle let out a sharp sigh as he led them towards the front of the store.

Kenny quickened his pace a little, trying to stay in stride with him while still pushing the cart. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kyle dismissed his concerns instantly, but he couldn’t help feeling the burn in the back of his head— his skull tingled like there were still three pairs of eyes watching him. “Let’s just find Ike and go home.” 

Kenny nodded again, keeping his mouth shut despite how much Kyle knew he wanted to pry. “Home it is.”

Stan glanced at Kyle over the table again, like they’d been doing for the last ten minutes— every time the piano player’s sausage fingers slipped and hit the wrong key. Kyle was chewing on his bottom lip to stifle his laughter, while Stan kept shooting him pointed looks; a silent plea to keep his cool. They’d been in bad graces with their parents all night, for their ‘blatant disregard of manners’. Kyle’s parents were always so gung-ho about fancy dinners, which was the only reason they were here tonight— the only reason Stan knew how to tie a tie. 

It was the restaurant attached to the resort, the one complimentary with their booking package— Stan didn’t care where they went, as long as he and Kyle were eating together. The only reason he could even tolerate going on vacation was having his best friend with him. Ever since Sheila had pitched the idea to their families, it’d been tradition every winter; a shared visit to the Breckenridge Ski Resort. Stan’s favorite time of year. 

“Stanley, you should eat your vegetables,” Gerald gestured vaguely to the boy’s plate, half of it untouched with grilled cauliflower and carrots. “You know, you burn around four hundred calories from snowboarding.” 

“Times that by twenty, since you turds don’t know when to quit,” Shelly piped in, earning herself a sharp look from Sharon.

“Hey— it’s not like we can go to clubs like Mom and Dad. Snowboarding is all we have.” Stan protested. He stabbed his fork into a carrot slice, and Kyle nodded along in agreement— though he was in the middle of chewing. 

“What about the playground in the lobby? You boys used to spend hours in there,” Sheila suggested, reaching over her plate for her half empty glass of wine. 

Stan, in turn, only rolled his eyes. He and Kyle traded looks of agitation, which then morphed into amused grins— they could never take anything seriously, let alone their families’ attempt at having a nice dinner. 

“I think it’s great that the boys are spending so much time on the mountain,” Randy added, taking a long sip of his beer before he pointed to his son with the glass. “Maybe you’ll build some muscle before football season.” 

Sharon rolled her eyes this time, shaking her head at her husband’s insolence. Stan secretly agreed with her reactions sometimes, and he wondered if his father only wanted a child so he could force them into sports. It was so typical of him, ruining everyone’s good moods by saying something like that. Always giving input where it wasn’t welcomed or needed. Deep down, Stan vowed that he would never imitate any of those rotten qualities in his adulthood. 

The piano player messed up his position again, and Stan’s eye twitched, though this time he didn’t look up from his plate. Kyle was ready to smile with him, but it had died out the moment he recognized the frown now adorning Stan’s features. 

“Well, I think you need to let them be children for a little while longer, Randy,” Sheila suggested, as she sipped from her wine glass. “It’s a shame that the year’s almost up. Soon, they’ll be in middle school…”

Kyle could tell that his mother was about to go on a tangent, and he quickly cut in, “Oh, Mom, please— we’re trying to eat,” He begged her, irritation lacing his tone. “

But Sheila only shrugged her shoulders, almost helplessly, as Gerald’s features held a look of amusement. He was no help at all, and neither was Ike— who had been fighting to escape his booster seat for the last hour of their dinner. 

Randy shot Sheila a skeptical look, apparently not ready to drop his topic. Stan should have known better than to think their dinner could’ve been peaceful. Uninterrupted. “I’m just saying, at least he’s getting a head start,” Randy continued, taking another sip of his beer. “What are all the other kids his age doing? Arts and crafts?”

At that, Sharon narrowed her eyes, shooting him a glare from across the table. Her fork clinked loudly against her plate, as if she were trying to get his attention. Stan’s eyes darted between his parents, sensing that they both wanted more than anything to just start screaming. And, usually, they would have— if Kyle’s family wasn’t sitting less than a foot away. 

Kyle could see the tension pulling his best friend’s shoulders back, knowing full well what was happening. His own parents may have been oblivious to it, but Kyle knew Stan— and he also knew that he had to do something before— god forbid— Randy flipped the damn table. 

“Mom, it’s eight o’clock— can Stan and I go watch Terrance and Phillip back in the room?” He spoke up, grabbing his mother’s attention before shit could hit the fan. He almost let a sigh of relief slip past his lips when he noticed Sharon and Randy go back to eating. 

Sheila eyed her son with a contemplating look, but after realizing that both Kyle and Stan’s plates were nearly empty, she relented. She pointed in the direction of the lobby with her fork, “Do you remember where to go?”

Kyle rolled his eyes— a common reaction among their families tonight— and took her response as a sign to start pushing his chair back. “Yes, Mom— you’d think after coming here for five years I’d pick up a few things,” He returned, though his tone was more playful than annoyed. 

Stan stifled a laugh at that, and began pushing his chair back as well. Sheila let out a fond sigh, but she waved her son and his best friend off regardless. “Go on. But remember, only two episodes, then it’s bedtime.”

Kyle gave his mother a ‘yeah, yeah’ wave with his hand, as he reached for Stan’s arm to pull him along towards the resort’s lobby. It was an innocent gesture, Stan knew that— but it was also inevitable how easily his anger washed away from the contact. He let a small smile tug at his lips, and his hand moved down until he could grasp Kyle’s fingers. 

“Thanks, dude,” He finally said, matching pace with him as they left the restaurant. He knew exactly why Kyle had done that, clearly eager for him to escape that nightmarish dinner. Stan squeezed his hand a little, not wanting to let go just yet. “Is it actually eight o’clock?”

Kyle turned to look at him, but his strides didn’t falter. “Stan. You know I don’t kid about Terrance and Phillip,” He quipped, before setting his eyes on the pair of elevators ahead. 

Stan huffed in response; all of his previous anger had vanished anyway, the moment Kyle had pulled him out of the restaurant. He slipped into the elevator behind the redhead, only dropping his hand when he felt Kyle’s grip slacken. 

The ride upstairs was quick— within seconds, the boys were spilling back out into the resort’s hallway, following the path back to their room using muscle memory. Stan fell into step beside Kyle, his eyes drifting around and taking note of the festive decor. There were wreaths hanging on nearly every door, with red ribbons and LED candles covering all the accent tables. 

Kyle had already started pulling out their keycard, keeping it in his pocket instead of trusting Stan with it— when the other boy suddenly paused mid-step, his gaze fixed on something at the end of the hall.  “Wait, hold on— the roof is right there?”

Kyle stopped, too— he followed his friend’s eyes and quirked a brow, as if there was a punchline he wasn’t getting. “Yeah? You didn’t know that?”

Stan gaped like he’d won the lottery. “No? Has it always been right there?”

Kyle simply shrugged with a small laugh, “Well— dude, we’re on the ninth floor. Did you see a button for ten in the elevator?”

Stan felt his lips curl into a scheming smirk, and before he could think much of it, his hand darted out, latching around Kyle’s wrist and tugging him along. “Come on.”

Kyle let out a faint gasp, but it quickly morphed into a chuckle as he hurried after him. “Wait— Stan, what are you doing?”

His expression didn’t falter, nor did his speed as he made  a beeline for the door at the end of the hall. “I wanna see the roof.”

“Our parents are gonna kill us—“

“They’re busy eating,” He insisted, waving his friend off with his free hand. “And too tone deaf to hear the fire alarm.” 

Kyle rolled his eyes with a huff, though he was unable to help the grin that adorned his face. He remembered the piano player’s awful hand coordination, and he cringed again. 

Stan slowed to a stop to test the door for the alarm, pausing in the threshold after pushing the bar out. He switched his hold on Kyle, letting their fingers intertwine once more. When there was no shrill beeping to protest their actions, Stan pushed forward, dragging the reluctant redhead behind him.

They reached the roof in seconds; it was only a short few steps up, and the first thing they noticed was the array of constellations scattered across the sky. The light pollution was minimal out in Breckenridge, and the stars were as raw as they were meant to be seen. Kyle grinned with astonishment as he approached the railing, his eyes darting between each one like it was his first time outside. 

Stan’s lips twitched up into his signature smirk, and he reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulling out a small flask that he’d swiped from his mother’s purse. He waved it out in front of Kyle, dangling it like a piece of candy. “Hey. Look.”

Kyle turned his head, just as he draped his arms over the ledge, scoffing once he realized what his friend was planning. “Where did you get that?”

“Chill out, the room’s stocked with every liquor under the sun, my mom’s not gonna miss it,” Stan shrugged like he couldn’t care less, already working to twist the cap off the container. He took a whiff of its contents, feeling the burn in his nose. “Whew— yeah, that’s jack alright.”

Kyle scoffed again, finally turning away, because no; Stan could not guess what kind of liquor it was based on the smell. “Shut up.”

“You want some?” Stan offered first, wanting to be polite, even if he already knew Kyle’s answer. He shook the flask, letting the liquor bounce around as if it would help entice him. It wouldn’t, and Stan knew that, too— but it didn’t stop him from asking anyway.

“Uh, no— no, I’d like to stay out of juvie this year, thank you,” Kyle retorted; he was already nervous about being on the roof, and the thought of his mother catching him with alcohol on his breath only surged him with fear. 

Stan could sense it, because he could read Kyle like a book, even when he didn’t mean to. He knew his mind like the back of his own palm, which was when he realized he may have pushed him too far. “Hey— you good?”

Kyle’s shoulders sagged, and his head tilted with a knowing manner. “I should be asking you that.” 

There was a beat of silence that passed between them, but Stan didn’t have to say anything; him taking a long swig from the flask was answer enough. Kyle sighed softly, “I’m sorry, but— I can’t not say anything, dude. Your dad’s a complete dick.”

Stan winced at the bitterness of the whiskey, but he still managed to let out a soft snort. He shook off the aftertaste and recapped the container. “Yeah? Well, we’re in agreement there.”

Kyle frowned as he watched him, and he eyed the flask like it had personally offended him. “I’m serious, dude. Why does your mom keep letting him get away with saying shit like that? I mean, she knows what my mom does when my dad steps out of line, right? Sometimes he ends up sleeping in the car!”

Stan rolled his eyes, “Kyle— it doesn’t matter. All right? I’m used to it. The only thing that’s stopping them from ripping each other’s throats out is you guys, so— I’m grateful.”

“Grateful?” Kyle parroted, his tone taking on a slight edge. “This is supposed to be our vacation, not theirs— you need a break, too, Stan.”

To that, the other boy simply waved the flask around again. “Hence my sticky fingers.”

Kyle clenched his jaw, and he shifted his arms to fold over his chest. “You know what I mean.”

It was Stan’s turn to scoff this time, because he didn’t know what Kyle was expecting from him. He gave him a half-assed shrug, his smirk returning if only for effect. “What do you want from me, Kyle? I’m on break— I’m hanging out with you, we’re snowboarding, what more do I need?”

“That’s not a vacation, that— that’s just any other Saturday!” Kyle shot back, without missing a beat.

Stan’s gaze turned exasperated. “Well, maybe your definition of vacation is different from mine!”

“That’s stupid!”

“Is it?” Stan tossed his arms up in a burst of frustration. “Is it really so stupid that I just enjoy spending time with you, Kyle? Why do I have to prove to you that I’m having fun?” 

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, that’s ridiculous!” Kyle protested immediately, a hint of panic lacing his voice. “I just— I don’t want your parents to take that away from you, too!”

Stan shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“You think I haven’t noticed?” Kyle asked, the frown returning to his face once more. “You don’t even go out for recess anymore, dude. You barely talk in Garrison’s class, and you got a D on your last quiz.”

Stan’s frustration then simmered into humiliation, and his grip tightened on the flask. He didn’t need to question how Kyle knew about his failing grade, he was sure the whole class knew. “Yeah, and?”

“And— and if you really think you’d be able to keep that from me, then you don’t know me at all.” Kyle said, as if offended that he’d been kept in the dark.

Stan didn’t know how to respond to that, so he shrugged again. “What, so you want me to run crying to you every time I fail a test?”

Kyle could throttle him if he really wanted to. “That’s not what I’m saying, I’m just— I’m worried about you. That’s all.”

Stan immediately dismissed this, because he’d heard it a million times before; from Kyle, from his teachers, even the goddamn principal. “I’m fine, dude. You should worry about Ike— that kid’s gonna grow up deaf if your parents keep him in that restaurant any longer.”

The redhead didn’t even look amused from that jab towards the piano player, one that usually would have him chuckling— he just leveled Stan with that deadpan expression of his, which on a good day had the other boy folding like a book. “Can you take anything seriously?” 

“Depends if it’s worth my energy,” Stan shrugged, throwing the flask back for another small gulp.

At that, Kyle shook his head with blatant disapproval. It was like he was watching his best friend throw his life away in real time. “You can’t let your dad make decisions for you like that. How does he know what you want to do? We’re in fifth grade, for christ’s sake!”

“Kyle, I don’t even know what I want to do— so why not sit back and relax while my dad figures it out for me?” Stan shot back. 

Kyle was still shaking his head, only now he’d taken a few steps closer. “That’s not a life, Stan. You hanging off your dad’s every word? I mean— where does he get off talking to you like that?”

Stan tossed his arms up, letting them hit his sides with obvious irritation. “I don’t know, maybe he gets it from my grandpa,” He replied, his tone deliberately flat as he took another swig from the flask. 

Kyle had had enough, watching Stan destroy himself like it was some party trick, like he was being paid for it. He surged forward, reaching out and all but ripping the flask from his hands. He ignored Stan’s cry of protest, “Hey— what the hell?!” 

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” Kyle told him, as he turned toward the rooftop railing and uncapped the container. Stan chased after him half-heartedly, before he was forced to stop as Kyle dumped the rest of the whiskey over the ledge. 

“Great,” Stan scoffed, running a hand through his black locks and resisting the urge to pull. “I thought you were all about free will?”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Kyle didn’t look angry more than he did sympathetic. His voice was a notch softer, almost a silent plea as he turned to face his best friend again. “Why don’t you talk to me about these things, Stan? Isn’t that what best friends are supposed to do?”

Out of anger that had tilted into resignation, Stan kicked a pebble across the gravel rooftop. He didn’t look his friend in the eyes. “You have better things to do than worry about my life, Kyle.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kyle didn’t even take a breath before responding, his tone clipped. “Why do you do that? Why do you think I don’t care about you?”

“I don’t think that—“

“Yes, you do. You think you’re a burden to me, so you choose to bottle all this crap up instead of talking to me.” 

Stan wanted to groan, but the noise came out as a long sigh. He should have expected this to come up sooner or later— Kyle had always been annoyingly observant. He felt his shoulders sag, and he finally turned to face the redhead. “You don’t want to hear about my problems.”

This time, Kyle bristled, especially after seeing the dejected look hidden beneath all of Stan’s feigned indifference. “Yes, I do! That is literally how friendship works! We’re supposed to be able to tell each other things!”

“How am I supposed to tell you that every time I go home, I lock myself in my room because it’s the only fucking way I can have peace?” Stan could feel his emotions rising again, could feel the guttural scream that was perched under his chin. “How am I supposed to tell you that when I’m alone, all I do is wish I was with you?”

Kyle’s frustration was wiped off his face in the blink of an eye. The air between them would have been dead silent, if not for the distant sounds of the resort below them— and Stan’s shaky exhale as he then continued. 

“You want the truth, Kyle? I hate it at home. I can’t stand my parents, and I can’t stand being by myself. So, yeah— I bottle all my shit up, because I don’t want you to be responsible for fixing it.” 

Kyle’s shoulders deflated like a popped balloon, his features turning with the small frown that tugged at his lips. “Stan…” 

Stan could feel the effects of the alcohol swirling around his head, but the ball was already rolling. He cast Kyle a helpless, almost desperate glance. “…I don’t want you to look at me and always think that there’s something wrong with me.” 

Kyle only shook his head at that, a pang of hurt rocketing straight through his chest on his friend’s behalf. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Stan.” He moved closer, taking slow, cautious steps as if he were approaching a rabid animal. “You’re not some— some failure, okay? You’re my best friend, in the whole world…”

Stan didn’t move an inch from his spot, but it was obvious that Kyle was finally getting through to him; his lips were pulled down, his body slack like he could keel over any minute, but he kept his gaze locked on the redhead.

Kyle stopped right in front of him, reaching up without hesitation, his hands resting gently against his shoulders. “...Forget what your dad says. Stan, you— you have so much potential. You don’t have to listen to him, you’re the only one who knows what’s best for you.”

Stan exhaled a long sigh through his nose, his eyes glancing between Kyle’s as if it hurt to look away. He swallowed hard, missing the burn of the alcohol— he was used to silencing his doubts, his insecurities; but with Kyle, he never had to hide them in the first place. He knew that. At least, he should. 

He didn’t say anything, he simply leaned forward and pulled Kyle into a tight hug, nearly crushing him against his chest. But the other boy didn’t even flinch— he wrapped his own arms around Stan, melting into the embrace as if it were second nature. 

“...Thanks, Ky.” Finally came Stan’s shaky voice, lacking any usual snark or sarcasm for the first time in months. 

Kyle’s hold around him only strengthened in response.