Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Brovloski household had a policy with lights. There were only three lights maximum allowed on at a time, which usually wasn’t an issue for the family, since they spent a lot of time in the same room, either watching a movie in the living room, or eating at the table in their conjoined kitchen. The light from the TV was enough to keep the living room illuminated on its own, but most of the time someone kept a table lamp on so as to not cause eye damage from the pixelated screen. As for the second light, the fixture above the dining table was ideal, since it shined through nearly the entire first floor of the house. As long as no one had to go into the garage, or outside to take the trash out, they could see perfectly fine. 

Kyle liked to leave the downstairs bathroom light on as the third. He figured it made the most sense, if someone had to go they wouldn’t be turning on an extra light in order to see. When it was time for bed – which was a call usually made by Kyle’s mother, Sheila – every light in the house would be turned off, excluding the front porch and the upstairs hallway. Nightlights were an exception, since Kyle’s twelve year old little brother, Ike, refused to sleep without them. 

On nights like tonight, where Kyle and Ike were home alone while their parents drank wine with their friends, the policy didn’t really apply. Not that it even mattered to begin with, since the brothers both insisted that they could see fine with just one light. If they needed a snack, they’d use the light above the stove to navigate through the kitchen. 

It was nearing ten o’clock, the only sounds in the house coming from the TV, and Ike, as he sat criss-crossed at the coffee table, his pencil scratching against paper. Kyle was lounging on a three seater sofa, his arm draped over the back cushions, and his other leaning against the armrest. His attention was fixated on his favorite show, Big Bang Theory, where pre-recorded laughter would occasionally play after someone delivered a funny line. 

“What’s one and four sixes divided by seven and one half?” Ike broke the silence with a question about his math homework. 

Kyle glanced down at his little brother for a second, then looked back at the TV. Without moving a muscle, he responded. “Two ninths.” 

Ike nodded and scribbled down the answer, slowly but surely moving down the list of equations assigned by his teacher. Kyle smiled, happy to help. If their parents were home, they would have made Ike break down the equation and solve it for himself, but Kyle knew his brother could care less about math, so it was easier to just give him the answer. Fractions were not Ike’s strong suit, the seventh grader instead had more of an interest in science class.

A few more minutes of silence went by, enough for Kyle to have to click ‘next episode’ on the TV, starting a brand new twenty minute installment. Suddenly, Ike dropped his pencil onto his notebook paper, turning to Kyle.

“Can we order a pizza?” He asked.

Kyle furrowed his eyebrows, and again glanced towards his brother. “It’s ten o’clock, Ike. They’re probably closed. Plus, you already ate dinner.” 

“But mac n’ cheese is a snack, not a meal.” Ike whined in response. “I’m still hungry. And mom left us money anyway, and Chef’s place is open till midnight.” 

Kyle sighed, an exasperated noise, but couldn’t ignore the feeling of hunger in his stomach. Kraft mac n’ cheese wasn’t very filling, he guessed he could agree with Ike on that one.

“Fine. What kind do you want?” Kyle caved, standing up from the couch and making his way towards the kitchen.

“Extra cheesy!” Ike yelled from the living room, when Kyle rounded a corner and disappeared from his view. 

Kyle switched on the overhead light in the kitchen, not bothering to use the stove light. He walked to the fridge, his eyes scanning the list of phone numbers written on a small whiteboard attached to the door. Two of them belonged to Kyle’s next door neighbors, another two being his parent’s cell numbers. Even though Kyle’s mom made both him and Ike memorize their numbers, they still kept them on the board in case of emergencies. A few spaces below, there was a number labeled for Chef’s Place, with a poorly drawn slice of pepperoni pizza right next to it. Kyle didn’t care enough to memorize the number for his cell, so he turned around to grab the landline phone off the wall. 

Before he could begin dialing, the landline started ringing in his hands. Kyle jumped a bit, not expecting a call from anyone so late at night. He glanced back at the landline holder, reading off the caller ID on the small screen. 

He rolled his eyes, before pressing a button and placing the phone to his ear. “What do you want, Cartman?”

“What the hell Kahl, I texted you like three times and you didn’t answer. You better not be ignoring me, jackass!”

Kyle furrowed his eyebrows, switching the landline from his right hand to his left, digging into the pockets of his sweatpants. His cellphone wasn’t there. Confused, Kyle turned around and headed back into the living room, towards the couch. 

“Ike, have you seen my phone?” He asked, lifting up accent pillows in search of the device. His brother just shrugged, too focused on his homework. Kyle bent down and fished for his phone underneath the couch cushions. 

“Anyway I just wanted to tell you I beat Arkham City. Something I assume you haven’t done yet?” Cartman said. 

Kyle sighed, for the second time that night, standing up straight. “So you called my household landline to gloat about beating Arkham City? Why am I not surprised?”

Cartman audibly scoffed. “No, I called your household landline to gloat about how much better I am at Arkham City than you are, dickhead.”

Kyle replaced the pillows on the couch, deciding his phone wasn’t worth ripping the furniture apart for. He probably just left it in the bathroom. “Do you have anything important to say or can I hang up now?”

Kyle’s socked feet thudded against the hardwood floors as he took a detour to the kitchen, checking the hallway in case he left his phone on the entry table. When he turned the corner, he instantly spotted the device sitting on the table’s surface. Of course. He picked it up and turned it on, reading through the notifications he missed.

“Actually, I do,” Cartman admitted. “Tolkien’s party on Friday.” 

“What about it?” Kyle asked with an uninterested tone, walking into the kitchen. 

“He’s making it into a seniors only party now instead of close friends. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Kyle rather harshly smacked his phone down on the kitchen island. He paused for a moment, actually considering if he was talking to a real human being, or a barely functioning idiot. “Cartman, you wouldn’t catch me dead at a party hosted by the football captain. You of all people should know how much I hate that clown.” 

“Mmm, but is it Tolkien that you hate, or is it–”

“So help me, Cartman, if you say his name I will shove my foot so far up your ass tomorrow you’ll be puking toenails for three weeks!” Kyle threatened, whipping around as if his brunette friend was behind him.

“...Ew, Kahl, are you insinuating that you don’t clip your toenails? Weak, dude.” Cartman’s squeaky voice managed to pinch Kyle’s last nerve. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, tiredly. “Give me one good reason why I should continue to waste my breath talking to you.” 

“Because I happen to be the only friend you have that motivates you.” Cartman argued, a very poor point. 

Kyle leaned over the kitchen island. “You say that like you actually give a shit about my problems. I think I would actually prefer going to Tolkien’s party than listen to you strain yourself trying to give me good advice.” 

Silence. Then, “...So you’re in?” 

“What?! No, dude, that was a fucking joke! Have you lost your capability to understand satire?!” Kyle retorted. “Actually no, don’t answer that, I forgot your tiny ass brain can’t comprehend anything simple.”

Cartman groaned loudly. Kyle removed the phone from his ear a bit, the noise irritating his eardrum. “Stop being such a pussy, Kahl! You’ve been a pussy for the last three years of high school, I think it’s time for you to grow a pair.” 

“I am not stepping foot into that party, Cartman, that is final. Now let it go before I walk my ass over there and break your arm.” Kyle pressed, feeling his blood boil beneath his skin. 

“Okay fine, you big fucking baby! Stay home while me Kenny Butters and Tweek get high with people ten times cooler than you!” 

“Moron, Butters would never touch weed. That’s like saying the earth doesn’t revolve around the fucking sun.” Kyle attested. 

“Whatever, Kahl. You have three days to decide if you want to stop being a pussy. When you’re ready–” 

Kyle hung up the phone before Cartman could finish. “Fucking imbecile.” He mumbled. 

When middle school finally ended, Kyle tried his hardest to ditch Cartman – the sociopathic narcissist he’d somehow befriended over the years – but his efforts were proven to be futile, Cartman never seemed to get the hint. Every time Kyle would flat out ignore him, the boy always assumed he was being funny, and would fire back with a normal conversation as if he didn’t understand. 

After a while, Kyle gave up. But after adding four more members to his group – Butters Stotch, a shy and loyal boy, Kenny McCormick, a cynical blonde with underlying innocence, Tweek Tweak, a born coffee addict, and Scott Malkinson, a nerd turned jock – Cartman’s insufferable antics grew more tolerable. Of course, Cartman had always had it out for Kyle, he could manage to act like a normal human being around their other friends, but when they were alone Kyle swore the brunette was put on earth solely to piss him off. 

He would refer to the two as rivals, arch enemies, if it weren’t for someone else. Another boy he despised more than Cartman, for similar reasons. The only difference was that this boy hurt Kyle on purpose, prayed for his downfall and wished him dead. Cartman only ripped on him because he thought it was funny. So, Kyle could deal with him, if it meant there would never be another Stan Marsh.

Kyle sighed, turning towards the fridge and mentally reading off the number for Chef’s Place. He dialed it into the keypad of the landline, the rumbling of his stomach actually reaching his ears this time. 

Stan winced when he felt teeth sink into his tongue, reeling back from the sudden sharp pain. He turned his head to the side, indicating that whatever was happening was over now. 

“Sorry. Did I bite you?” Wendy asked, her tone laced with faux innocence. Stan wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, ridding his lips of saliva. 

“Yes, Wendy. You did bite me. For the third time tonight.” He sassed, keeping his back pressed against the driver’s side door as the raven-haired girl leaned away. 

Wendy pulled down the visor on her side of the jeep, sliding the cover off the mirror to check her appearance. She rubbed the remaining lip gloss over her lips, spreading the reddish color around again. “I don’t know why you asked me not to hold back when your pain tolerance is lower than your place on the attractiveness scale.” 

Stan huffed, shaking his head. He knew this whole thing was a mistake, but mistakes were Stan Marsh’s motto. He just figured this one would have the least amount of consequences. Turns out he was wrong, and if his tongue bruised tomorrow, he’d know for sure. 

“It’s always something with you, Wendy.” He nagged, reaching into the cup holder to pull out his half-finished beer. “How do I know you’re in this for me and not for your reputation?” 

Wendy shut the visor without putting the cover back on the mirror. She turned to Stan, grinning. “You don’t. But that’s the fun part, isn’t it? Finding out tomorrow at school if I plan on talking to you or not?” 

Stan puffed his bottom lip out in silent agreement. “Touché.”

He took a swig of his bottle, the beer lacking flavor as it had gone flat hours ago. He didn’t mind, alcohol was alcohol, plus he really had no room to complain, since he was the one who supplied the drinks in the first place. 

Outside the jeep, Stan could see the bonfire growing its flames, after Clyde had dumped another bottle of lighter fluid onto the wood. He couldn’t hear him through the windshield, so he just watched as Clyde and Tolkien bodychecked each other, their mouths hanging open with laughter. 

Wendy grabbed Stan’s attention again when he heard her open the car door, cold autumn air blowing into the jeep. He placed his beer back in the cup holder. 

“Do you want to do this again?” He asked her, while Wendy reached by her feet to grab her bag. 

“Depends,” She lifted her head to look back at him, stepping down onto the ground outside. “How long do you want to keep pretending you like me?” 

Stan rolled his eyes. “If I didn’t like you, you think I’d bring you all the way out here?” He asked, motioning to the woods where they were parked, and the clearing that led to Stark’s Pond. 

Wendy tilted her head down, shooting Stan an unimpressed smirk. “I think you bring lots of girls out here. How is poor, little old me supposed to believe she’s special to you?” 

Stan drummed his fingers over his steering wheel, looking Wendy up and down. “Because I’m the only one who puts up with you.” He said. 

Wendy placed her hand on the edge of the car door. “That I’ll give you, Stan Marsh.” She whispered, before pushing the door closed. 

Stan watched her walk around the car, thinking she would give him another glance. But that was before he remembered that this was Wendy Testaburger, and that second glances weren’t her style. She headed back towards the bonfire, two other girls standing up upon her arrival. 

Stan grabbed his bottle again, chugging the remnants of his flat beer. When it was empty, he rolled down his window, and tossed the bottle onto the ground. Nobody was going to miss it anyway. 

He turned the car off and stepped outside, the gelid air hitting him square in the face. It would have hurt if Stan didn’t already have a bruise on his chin that needed soothing. He planted his hands in his jacket pockets, heading over to the bonfire. 

The heat from the flames was felt immediately when Stan got closer, which meant that Clyde and Tolkien were probably sweating where they were, messing around so close to the fire. Stan huffed at their shenanigans, Clyde trying to climb on Tolkien’s back while Scott attempted to mediate. He spotted Craig sitting on a blanket, resting against an evergreen tree trunk. Stan concluded that Craig was probably the only sober person there, so he walked up to him. 

“Hey. I’m heading home. Thought I would tell the guy who hasn’t touched a single bottle of beer in the three hours we’ve been sitting here.” Stan said, a lighthearted reminder that while he didn’t necessarily have a curfew, his parents would still be pissed if he came home at four in the morning. 

Craig nodded once, lifting his hand to flip Stan off. “Night, fuckface.” 

“Night, pussy.” Stan replied, turning and heading back to his jeep. 

He shut the car door and turned the engine over, instantly blasted with warm air from when he cranked the heat all the way up. He drove forward and made a u-turn around the clearing, returning a wave from Scott who was surprisingly still standing upright. 

Stan chuckled. He liked Scott, sometimes he was the only one in the group Stan thought he could talk to. Not that it was very often, but Scott was a good listener. He was genuine about helping people, especially his friends. There was a downside to him, however. Stan had made it clear he didn’t like it when he found out, but the boy was persistent. Scott was allowed to have other friends, Stan knew that. It just sucked that Scott was friends with the one person in South Park that he wished death upon. 

When Stan walked through his front door, the first thing he did was take off his jacket. He draped it messily over the branches of the coat rack, along with his beanie. He glanced into the living room, missing the extra shadow on the couch that usually greeted him when he came home. That only meant one thing. 

Stan sighed, a feeling of sympathy washing over him. He slid his phone into his hoodie pocket, then made his way through the foyer and into the kitchen. The curtains on the back door were drawn, but the outside light was turned off. The backyard was enveloped into blackness, until Stan flipped the switch. 

He slid the glass door open, immediately hearing movement. Sparky trotted towards him, wagging his tail when he finally reached him. 

“Haha, hey boy.” Stan whispered, scratching the dog behind his ears while Sparky attempted to jump on him. “You’re cold, aren’t you? Come on.” 

Stan motioned into the house and Sparky listened, shaking off the cold. Stan closed and locked the door behind him, shutting the backyard light off as well. Sparky gulped down the water in his bowl, nearly choking. When he was done he moved onto his food bowl, stale kibble that had probably been there since the morning. 

Stan opened the refrigerator and scoured the shelves, searching for anything remotely appetizing. There were several plastic containers filled with leftovers, ranging from week-old pasta to meatloaf from two nights ago. Stan concluded that his parents had skipped dinner, or were too out of it to cook. Judging by how silent and dark the house was, they were probably already asleep. 

His stomach growled as he opened the freezer drawer, picking out a microwave dinner he had bought for moments just like this. It wasn't every night of the week where he was left to cook for himself, it was more about Stan choosing not to be home. He peeled the plastic off the top of the chicken tenders and placed them in the microwave. To kill the six minutes he had to waste, he pulled out his phone and leaned against the countertop.

Stan opened his unread messages on different apps, most of them coming from girls on snapchat. He sent back one word responses to most of them, not caring enough to pursue a conversation. He clicked on Scott’s story, watching a video of Tolkien and Clyde chasing a runaway bottle of tequila. He huffed, a fond smile forming on his face. Scott’s next story was a photo of Craig where Stan last saw him, sitting by a tree trunk without a bottle in sight. Craig was in the process of flipping Scott off, but the photo was taken too early so his hand was a blur. 

Before Stan knew it, the microwave beeped and he caught a whiff of his chicken tenders. His stomach growled as he eagerly opened the door, wincing when his finger was burned by the container. He set them down on the stove, picking one of the tenders up and waiting for it to cool off. Sparky approached him, sitting without being told. His eyes were trained on Stan’s food. 

“I would give you some, but this might be worse for you than your own stale dog food, Spark.” He said, keeping his voice somewhat low. He couldn’t hear his parents snoring, but if they were awake Stan's dad would have already yelled at him for something.

Sparky let out a begging whine, tapping his paws on the tile floor. Stan ignored it at first, then remembered how long Sparky had probably been stuck outside. The doghouse made of plywood from Stan’s freshman year woodshop project could only provide so much comfort. He felt bad, so he broke off a piece of chicken and threw it to Sparky, who happily consumed it.

After throwing away the plastic container, Stan glanced at the stove to read the time. It was twelve-thirty on a Wednesday morning, he had to be up even earlier than usual to help the cheerleaders hang posters for their fall-themed bake sale. It helped a little knowing he would probably see Wendy there, too.

Stan climbed the stairs with Sparky at his heels, opening his phone as another message appeared. Clyde had sent something to their group chat, the same photo of Craig that was posted on Scott’s story with the words ‘my honest reaction’ above it. Stan double-tapped the photo and turned off his phone, heading into his bedroom.

Sparky jumped up on his bed, laying at the foot while Stan pulled his hoodie off. He replaced his jeans with sweatpants, then collapsed on his mattress. As much as he wanted to lay awake and scroll through instagram for the rest of the night, he knew his future self would regret it in the morning. He placed his phone on his night stand, not bothering to charge it. He closed his eyes as Sparky curled up beside him. 

Laying awake was exactly what Kyle did. He watched Scott’s snapchat story more than once, entertained by his shenanigans. Even though he knew that Scott’s friend group didn’t like him, sometimes Kyle wished he could have fun like that. Carefree, genuine fun. 

Then again, that wasn’t him. Kyle had yet to experience a party other than a birthday celebration for one of his friends, but he knew better than to seek one out. He reads on the news about parties getting busted by the police at least twice a week, and it would be his luck that the first non-birthday party he went to would end up with him being arrested. 

Kyle’s eyes snapped to the top of his phone screen when a message appeared, from Kenny. Usually, the blonde would type in their group chat, since what mostly applied to Kyle usually applied to the whole clique as well. But this time, it was a private conversation.

Kyle clicked on the notification and opened it. 

From: Kendoll: don’t forget i need help carrying my project into class tomorrow

Kyle’s heart unintentionally skipped a beat, he did almost forget. He moved his fingers across the keyboard, typing a response.

To: Kendoll:  What time should I come over?

Kyle watched the three dots appear on the side of the screen, indicating Kenny was typing.

From: Kendoll: 6 is good. you can stay for breakfast if you want, my mom will drive us

Kyle sent back a thumbs up emoji, which Kenny had liked. 

Reading the time on the screen, Kyle decided it would be best to go to sleep. He put his phone on his night stand, placing it on top of his wireless charger, and rolled onto his back. He stared up at his ceiling, where stains from glow-in-the-dark stars resided. Kyle had taken them down during 9th grade, when he found out that someone at school had gotten made fun of for having the same thing. The last thing he wanted was to be a loser – more so than he already was – for his final year of high school. 

The blades of his fan whirred around at a steady pace, blowing a mild breeze onto Kyle’s body. He would let it run all night, it was good for background noise. Whenever he got cold, he would just layer up. Being cold was easier than being hot anyway, and a lot more tolerable. That was one of the reasons Kyle liked South Park, the winters were long and the summers weren’t excruciating. He could sleep with both of his bedroom windows open and never once break a sweat. 

A ding of Kyle’s phone jolted him awake, annoyed that he forgot to turn his ringer off. He rolled onto his side, grabbing his phone when another ding sounded. 

From: Los Pollos Hermanos: Scott: *VIDEO ATTACHMENT*

Kyle clicked on the video Scott had sent to their group chat. Someone else was recording him while Scott poured two whole bottles of lighter fluid into a fire. The flames bursted outwards, causing Scott and the camera man to have to step back. Kyle smiled and shook his head, clicking off the video to read the text below it.

From: Los Pollos Hermanos: Fatass: see kyle even scott’s being less of a pussy than u r

Kyle’s smile dropped almost instantaneously. 

To: Los Pollos Hermanos: Me: Shut the fuck up fat boy

Kenny, who was still awake, liked Kyle’s response. 

“Haha, alright, alright… give me another one!” Tolkien’s laughter finally died down, he had a tendency to think everything was funny, even a minor ‘would you rather’ question. And when everyone around him was drunk off their asses, it was even worse. 

Clyde’s upper body was draped over a log next to Tolkien, a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand. The bonfire was burning its last few sticks, and the warmth was quickly depleting, leaving the fall air to swallow the night whole. Scott sat against a log with his phone screen reflecting a bright light onto his face, he was reading from a list of would-you-rather questions off the internet. 

Scott’s smile grew when he found the winning question. “Okay…would you rather get your wisdom teeth pulled without anesthesia, or get both your ass cheeks pierced with no numbing cream?” 

“Oh, god— dude! That’s sick!” Clyde cringed at the image of such painful activities, but Tolkien couldn’t have heard anything funnier. 

“Imagine— HA! Imagine Craig in the piercing chair! Emotionless motherfucker! Aw, that is rich!” Tolkien reached over and hit Clyde’s arm, as they both fell into a pit of laughter. 

Craig rolled his eyes. “Kiss my ass, both of you.” He replied, but couldn’t hold back the amused smile that formed on his lips. 

“Your pierced ass!” Tolkien bellowed out, escalating the joke so far that Clyde fell off the log, dropping the beer bottle and holding his stomach as he cackled. The laughter echoed all over the woods, surely reaching the water at the lake. 

It was only the four of them left around the bonfire. Stan had gone home almost an hour ago, and the girls followed shortly after. It was tradition for their friend group to gather by Stark’s Pond every once in a while, it was their spot. 

As the night progressed, the temperatures dropped. Fall in South Park usually meant freezing weather, but everyone had been used to it by now. Most of the residents that lived there had done so their whole lives, never leaving the comfort of a small American mountain town. They grew accustomed to cold nights, laughing at outsiders whenever they complained about the snow. 

Scott glanced at his phone, which had shut off due to the battery being drained by cheesy party questions. He didn’t have to see the time to know that it was late, far past the curfew his mother had set for him at the beginning of the school year, even though they both knew Scott wasn’t going to follow it. He always found a way to weasel out of it, reminding his parents that he had prolonged football practice, or a group project worth half of his grade. As long as it was school related, his parents never pried. 

Scott sniffed, the cold air burning his nose. “It’s getting–” 

“Don’t say ‘it’s getting late’ man, you’re so fucking lame.” Clyde cut him off, while Tolkien struggled to stand. 

Scott chuckled, standing up as well. “No, no, seriously guys, I’m exhausted. And I am not sleeping out here in my truck.”

From Scott’s right, Craig spoke up. “You sure you don’t want your truck impounded again? That was pretty fuckin’ funny.” 

“Oh, my god I forgot about that!” Tolkien slapped a hand over his mouth in shock. “You had to bike to school, man!” 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up you assholes. Be lucky your parents aren’t breathing down your necks every second of the day.” Scott argued. He looked down at the pump attached to his belt, turning on the screen and checking his sugar. He was well over the normal level, and he knew he didn’t have any spare insulin in his truck, so it was best to call it quits before he got too wasted to drive. 

“If you’re so insistent on being a pussy, fine. We’ll go home.” Clyde said, finally caving in. He tossed his beer bottle into the forest, beyond the treeline where he could see. “Tolkien, get your shit.” 

Tolkien staggered across the ground, almost leaning too close into the still burning fire. He barely missed tripping over a crushed can of bud light, as he bent down to pick up his backpack. His head pounded from a forming migraine, no doubt caused by the excessive laughter mixed with hard alcohol. He would have a hangover in the morning, which would suck having to go to school with, but that was the price he had to pay in order to stay relevant to the rest of his friends.

Clyde’s keys jingled as he pulled his lanyard out of his pocket, swinging it around. He turned to Scott, who was gathering his things as well. “You better not leave early at the party on Friday, that shit’s running til’ Sunday and there’s nothing you can do about it. Got it?!”

Scott raised his hands in mock surrender. “Got it, dude. You can rest in peace now.” 

“Aw, dude, never say that to someone. You’ll get em’ all freaked out.” Clyde added, before he noticed Craig stand up from the ground. “Craig, I assume you’re completely and utterly sober?”

“Who else is gonna make sure you fuckheads don’t kill yourselves out here?” Craig replied, folding up his blanket and placing it under his arm. 

“Ha! Yeah. I guess you’re the only one lame enough to be the designated driver.” Clyde teased, draping his arm around Tolkien’s shoulder. “Goodnight, dudes.” 

“Drive safe, you morons!” Scott yelled to the pair, as they stumbled to Clyde’s car. Tolkien yelled something back, but it was incoherent to the remaining boys. 

Scott grabbed the water jug that he kept by the fire, planning to completely put out the flames before he left the forest unattended. The water sizzled against the burning embers, eventually ridding the area of any excess light. 

Craig turned on his flashlight. “You’re okay to get home?” 

“I’ll be fine, dude. I’m only a little woozy.” Scott replied, waving his hand dismissively in Craig’s way. 

“Kay. See you tomorrow.” Craig flipped him off, a gesture that only his closest friends would understand as a goodbye. Scott waved until Craig was completely out of sight, hearing his car’s engine start up and tires roll on loose gravel.

Scott yawned, feeling a sudden wave of drowsiness fall over him. He supposed it served him right, it was how he usually felt after hanging with his friends, half-drunk and feeling like he could sleep anywhere other than his bed. 

His pump beeped at him, warning him of his high sugar levels. If his mother were there, she would watch him take insulin until she was sure he’d be alright. Sometimes Scott felt bad, knowing she would be disappointed in him for not watching his health. Then again, how was he supposed to have fun if he had to limit himself? Life really wasn’t fair. 

Scott yawned again, shaking off his tiredness while he began the walk to his truck. He pressed a button on his keyfob, hearing the doors unlock and the lights turn on. He opened the passenger’s door and stuffed his backpack on the seat, covered with boxes of candy and other drink bottles he’d forgotten to throw away. Cleaning out his truck wasn’t a regular thing for him, he preferred to simply ignore the garbage piled up on the seats until one of his friends commented on it. 

Scott hopped in the driver’s seat and basked in the somewhat warmer temperature. He was excited to get home and lay underneath his covers, maybe take a hot shower in the basement bathroom, since it was the furthest away from his parents’ room. As long as he was quiet, they wouldn’t wake up. And as long as he was quick, they wouldn’t ask questions. 

He turned over the engine as the overhead lights in his truck finally turned off. Scott groaned when a song blasted through his speakers, forgetting he had his volume cranked on the drive over. His head pounded in pain, his ears straining to escape the noise. He reached a hand over his radio to turn it down, but was forced to stop. 

Scott felt a hand grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back against the seat. “Hey–!!” He yelled out, struggling to escape the grip, but his efforts went in vain. 

A second hand circled around him, gloved and concealing any identifying features of the stranger in his backseat. Clutched in their fist was a glimmering silver blade, reflecting only the light of the moon that shined through Scott’s windshield. The stranger paused, seemingly for effect, as Scott’s eyes widened with fear.

“Oh, fuck– no!! Please— no!” Scott sputtered out, reaching to his car door to lift the handle. 

The stranger didn’t listen. With one swift movement, they sliced the knife across Scott’s neck, carving a jagged line in his skin. Thick red blood immediately flowed out of his flesh, splattering against his steering wheel and dashboard. Scott gasped and choked on air, accompanied by blood quickly flooding his throat. The stranger released the fist holding his hair, and Scott’s panicking muscles managed to open the door. 

He collapsed out of his truck, the gravel on the forest floor digging into his face. Scott’s vision was butchered with black spots, gradually taking over everything around him. His hands shook while he tried to crawl, but his plan was cut short as the stranger caught on. 

Scott was roughly flipped over, forced to look up at whoever had done this to him. The stranger blended with the sky around them, black clothes completely covering their body. Scott lifted his hands in one last effort to save himself, staring into where he assumed the stranger’s eyes were. A soulless black mask stared back at him, as the knife was once again brought into view. Scott gurgled something out, but whined when even he couldn’t understand it. 

The stranger plunged the knife into Scott’s stomach, even after they knew he was dead. 

The wind howled as it blew through the trees, passing over Stark’s Pond and the rest of South Park. It scared the animals into hiding, it cleared the streets of life. It was a sort of omen, a warning that something was coming. 

Something dark.

Chapter Text

“A little to the left,” 

Stan inched the piece of paper to his left, lining it up with the painted bricks of the cafeteria wall. His arms were beginning to hurt, this was the twelfth flyer he had hung that morning – flyer being a loose term, since the paper was bigger than Stan’s wingspan – and the cheerleaders had insisted on them being taped above head height. He wasn’t sure why, Stan’s attention was grabbed simply by the harshly bright colors of the paper, and the bold lettering that was neatly drawn on to advertise a bake sale. 

“A little more…” Bebe directed. Stan could sense her moving around behind him, checking from each angle how the flyer looked to a passing student. “Stop! That’s perfect.”

Stan struggled to hold his position, leaning over the ground while using a metal folding chair to stand on. They’d taken the same chair around with them all morning, one they grabbed from the supply closet in the gymnasium. PC Principal didn’t seem to mind, he just gave Stan and the girls a warning to bring it back before the first bell. 

Stan removed one of his hands from the flyer, holding it out until he felt Bebe stick two pieces of tape on his finger. He pressed one against the corner of the poster and smoothed it out, doing the same on the other side. For good measure, Bebe gave him two more pieces to attach to the bottom corners of the flyer. 

He hopped down from the chair once he was finished. “Where’s Wendy this morning?”

Bebe paused for a moment, while she was in the middle of picking up another flyer. “Why, you want her to give you another tongue bruise?”

Stan sighed, scrunching his nose up with slight embarrassment. “She told you about that, huh?”

Bebe grinned, a shit-eating smile when she handed Stan another flyer. “Among other things.”

Unamused, Stan grabbed the extra flyer and picked up the chair, kicking it back into its folded position. It was easier to carry that way. Bebe led him a little further through the cafeteria, stopping when she found a good spot on the wall. 

“Seriously, you haven’t seen her at all, have you?” Stan asked again, setting the chair down. He flipped the poster around so the front was facing him.

Bebe sighed, while two other cheerleaders helping the cause had overheard the conversation, and giggled. “Stan, Wendy has better things to do than lie in wait for you to ask her out again.” 

Stan huffed, rolling his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth. “Good to know I’m not on her list of priorities.” 

Bebe rolled her eyes. She let Stan eyeball the position of the flyer that time, waiting on standby with two pieces of tape. “I don’t think you were ever on her list of priorities. And that’s saying a lot, since her list is longer than your body count.”

“Jesus Christ, is it rip on Stan day or something?” He complained, sticking his hand out behind him. He pulled it away once he felt the tape. “Words hurt, you know.” 

“Your poor, fragile ego. How will you recover?” Bebe rubbed her fists under her eyes, mocking a crying child. Stan sneered at her while he reached for more tape. 

He smoothed out the corners of the flyer before applying it. When he was done, he hopped down from the chair again. The pile of posters that sat on one of the cafeteria tables was nearing its end, meaning there were only a few more to hang up, then Stan would be free of cheerleader volunteer work. 

Bebe took two more flyers off the table, before silently leading the way to the next spot. Stan had been to more rooms in South Park High that morning than he had in years, not counting all the times he’d cut class to meet girls. Most of those spots were found out by school staff anyway, making them liabilities. 

It was 6:45 in the morning, exactly twenty minutes before the first bell rang. The hallways weren’t yet crowded with students, but a few of them roamed around, most being club members or athletes like Stan. He wasn’t quite sure what clubs have meetings in the morning, maybe the dance committee? Although that seemed unlikely, most people don’t dance forty five minutes after the sun rises. 

“Here’s good,” Bebe stopped in her tracks, at a random wall above a row of lockers. Stan wasn’t ready, he nearly bumped into her. He unfolded the chair and set it down, stepping up. 

“I better be getting some free cookies out of this. Maybe some brownies too?” He half-joked, taking the flyer from Bebe and lining it up again. 

“Who do you think we are, cheapskates? Read the sign.” Bebe retorted, gesturing to the poster. 

Stan skimmed over the flyer for maybe the thirtieth time that morning, his eyes straining from the contrastive colors. The flyer read the title of the bake sale, SP High’s Treats & Sweets Sale, along with prices for singular pastries and prices for bundles. Each price depended on the kind of pastry, but it seemed like the minimum payment was five dollars. There was a fall color scheme the cheerleaders had followed, sticking to browns, yellows, reds and oranges. To fill the rest of the space, there were mediocre drawings of cookies, muffins, brownies and pie slices all over the paper. 

“Who drew this one? It looks like a deformed balloon.” Stan pointed to a messily outlined muffin, earning him a harsh slap on his leg from Bebe.

“Dick, I drew that!” She exclaimed, while Stan descended into a fit of mocking laughter. The slap had barely phased him, he was used to rough housing with his friends, especially Clyde, who resorted to borderline abuse whenever someone said something funny. 

Stan hopped down from the chair when the flyer was hung. His fingers tingled from the ghostly feeling of tape still sticking to his skin. Instinctively, he rubbed his hands together to get rid of the sensation. 

“Are we done now? If not, I might be able to use my aching arms as an excuse to get out of practice today.” Stan said, folding up the chair again. 

Bebe sighed, but smiled. “I suppose I can let you off the hook. Thanks, Stan.” 

Stan opened his mouth to say something witty, something like ‘I know you only think I’m good for my height, Bebe’, but he never got the chance. The clacking of heels caught his attention, as he turned to see Principal Victoria walking towards them. Behind her was a police officer, and immediately Stan’s face dropped. He hoped there wasn’t going to be another locker search for the football team.

“Good morning, Principal Victoria.” Bebe greeted with a smile, a tooth-rotting gesture she only used with authority figures. Stan knew that. 

“Good morning, Bebe.” Principal Victoria replied, before she directed her attention to Stan. “Stan, would you mind coming with me to my office for a moment?” 

Stan did not like how Principal Victoria’s eyebrows were clasped together, an expression that resembled something almost of worry. It was the look she gave students when she had bad news to deliver. Stan wondered what his news would be, something related to his parents, or something that actually mattered to him?

He looked to Bebe, as if he expected her to advocate for him, using the excuse of hanging flyers so he wouldn’t have to go. But, the blonde girl just shrugged at him. Stan was all alone on this one. 

“Uh, sure, Ms. Victoria.” He eventually replied, purposely avoiding the eyes of the police officer. Which was probably a bad idea, avoiding eye contact was a clear sign of lying, but Stan didn’t have anything to lie about. At least, he thought so. 

“Great. Follow me, please.” 

Stan gave Bebe one last look. She returned his glance, one just as confused as his. 

Kyle’s breath made clouds as he exhaled, the cold pinching his exposed skin. He would have shuddered from the air, if all his time and focus wasn’t spent making sure Kenny’s solar system project didn’t get caught in the door of the school.

Dew glistened across the wet grass, clouded by a thick blanket of fog. It was a shitty morning in South Park, the sun was fully risen but everything was still fairly dark. He supposed elevation had something to do with it, technically they were living on top of a mountain range. 

“Careful, careful!!” Kenny exclaimed, maneuvering around so the corners of the poster board wouldn’t get bent. Kyle hissed through his teeth, he almost let the door close before Kenny was through the frame. When they safely made it inside the school, Kenny let out a breath of relief.

“Jesus dude, if your teacher doesn’t give you an A I’m gonna be so fucking pissed.” Kyle said, lowering his arms to a more comfortable position, still carrying the project. 

“You’re gonna be pissed?” Kenny asked, incredulously. “If there is no plus sign next to my A I will fucking kill someone.” 

Kyle chuckled, raising his eyebrows. He and Kenny moved so they were walking next to each other, nearly taking up the entire hallway with the size of the poster board. The paper mache solar system was made up of eight planets, each one a different color and size. Kyle eyed the planet with four rings around it, clearly Kenny’s own version of Saturn.

“How long did this take you, dude? I feel like if you had this kind of patience with every other class you’d be an honors student.” Kyle asked, throwing in a backhanded compliment. 

Kenny shot him an unimpressed glare. “Funny. It took me two weeks, if you count the one day I spent sketching early concept designs. You do not want to know what I originally named my sun.”

“What?” Kyle mused, narrowing his eyes. 

Kenny glanced at Kyle quickly, then back to the hallway in front of him. “Those words are not meant to be comprehended by the human brain.” 

Kyle snickered. “Okay, freak.” 

The boys only had to lift the poster board once, in order for some kid to pass them in the hallway. Kyle felt the kid look back at them, probably questioning the pure gold they were transporting to Kenny’s astronomy class. 

They rounded the corner of the hallway, having to move over so Bebe Stevens could pass them, carrying her own kind of project. Kyle didn’t care enough to see what the bright yellow poster said, but he did manage to catch a glimpse of a sharpie-drawn chocolate chip cookie. 

“Hold on, let me prop the door open.” Kenny said as they reached the door to his classroom. Or, rather, miniature planetarium, one of the biggest rooms in the entire school next to the assembly room. Kenny placed one of his hands under the middle of his poster board, using his other to slide the washer over the metal tube on the bottom of the door. He checked to make sure it was secure, letting the door go and cheering when it stayed in place. 

Kyle carefully turned Kenny’s project on its side, so it was able to fit through the door frame. He began taking steps into the room, before the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching him. 

“Kyle Broflovski?” Kyle’s head snapped towards the sound of his name, eyes landing on a man in a police uniform. Instant panic. 

“…Yeah?” Kyle answered while pausing in the doorway, struggling to hold the position of Kenny’s project. 

“I need you to come with me.” The officer informed him, his tone indicating that it wasn’t a request. 

Kyle exchanged glances with Kenny, his mind immediately swarming with worry. He ran over every possibility that the reason he could be in trouble was his own fault, before remembering that Kyle was associated with Cartman. He sighed.

“Look, whatever Eric Cartman did, I had nothing to do with it. He isn’t even really my friend, he just follows me around and–” 

“This isn’t about your friend Eric. Please just follow me.” The officer said, urgently. That did not make Kyle feel any better. 

He furrowed his eyebrows, but listened. He and Kenny both set down the solar system inside the classroom, on the floor. Kenny mumbled something about how if it got stepped on he would call in a tactical nuke. Kyle chuckled, but the joke wasn’t enough to ease his nerves. 

The first bell had rung just seconds after Kyle stepped into the office. He wasn’t necessarily complaining, since his first period was History, and he had no problem missing that, but something told him that being in History class would be better than whatever was about to happen here. 

Because when Kyle laid eyes on Stan Marsh sitting in front of Principal Victoria’s desk, he knew he was in for a shitshow. 

“Have a seat, Mr. Broflovski.” The officer directed Kyle to the chair next to Stan, much to his dismay. Kyle would quite literally rather sit on a cactus bush than sit next to him, especially if the boy managed to blame Kyle for something he didn’t do. Because in no world would Stan Marsh admit to his mistakes without taking someone innocent down with him. 

It’s certainly happened before.

The short beat of silence was broken before Kyle knew it. “You can both relax. Neither of you are in trouble, but this is still a very serious matter.” Principal Victoria informed the pair, taking a bit of weight off Kyle’s shoulders. 

He bounced his knee up and down, while his arms were crossed nervously over his middle, a sort of self-hug. He wanted to ask questions, but surprisingly, Stan beat him to it. 

“What’s this all about?” He patiently demanded, unable to hide the anxious upturn of his brows. 

The police officer stood next to Ms. Victoria’s chair, where she sat with her hands folded on her desk. He as well had his arms crossed, donning a stoic expression. Kyle was unable to read him, he had absolutely zero idea what was going on. 

“According to both of his parents, Scott Malkinson did not come home last night, and still has not shown up despite it being the next day.” Principal Victoria chose her words carefully. “You were both called here because you are friends with Scott, or you are seen frequently talking with him, and we want to know everything we can.” 

“Wait, wait, wait—“ Kyle interpreted her words instantly. “Scott is missing?”

Principal Victoria began to answer, before the police officer interrupted.

“We’d need to wait twenty-four hours in order for it to be considered a missing person’s case. For right now, Scott Malkinson’s parents are unaware of his location, and are just worried.” 

“Precisely.” Ms. Victoria agreed. “Have either of you seen or heard from Mr. Malkinson this morning?” 

Stan turned his head away, focusing on the floor. To anyone else, he looked like he was in thought, genuinely wracking his brain trying to think of the last time he spoke to Scott Malkinson. But to Kyle, he knew that Stan was just trying to come up with a lie on the spot. 

He watched the side of Stan’s face as he began to speak. “…I haven’t seen Scott since last night, he was hanging out at— at my house for a study group.”

Kyle let out a quiet breathy laugh. Bullshit. He knew damn well where Scott was last night, drinking at Stark’s Pond like there was no tomorrow. Of course Stan would continue to lie, covering his own ass despite not being accused of anything. 

Stan glanced his way without moving his head. Kyle contemplated briefly about arguing his own point, bringing up Scott’s snapchat story and text message, but that would probably get Scott in trouble. Kyle didn’t want that. Scott was most likely sleeping in his truck with a massive hangover, and Stan was just lying on his behalf. He hoped that was the case.

“Was anyone else there with you besides Mr. Malkinson?” The officer chimed in, taking over the interrogation. 

Stan slowly nodded, affirming the officer’s question. “Yeah, um… Craig Tucker, Clyde Donovan, Tolkien Black and.. Wendy Testaburger.” 

“And he didn’t spend the night at your house? You saw him leave?” The officer continued his questionnaire, while Stan began fidgeting with his hands. Cracking his knuckles, pinching his fingers… all signs of nervous ticks. 

“No sir, um, Scott left around the same time as everyone else.” Stan replied, somehow managing to keep his voice from wavering. 

The police officer nodded, slowly. “And what time was that?”

Stan looked away again, planning to pull a random time out of his ass. Kyle hoped he was at least believable with it. 

“Around… twelve? In the morning.” He eventually answered. The police officer nodded again. 

“And he hasn’t messaged or called either of you since last night? Sent you, uh— a snap-chat? Instagram?” He asked. Kyle applauded him for even knowing what those apps were. 

It was Stan’s turn to shake his head. “No sir. We saw him leave and thought he was fine, but— I guess—“ 

“What about you?” The officer interrupted him, locking eyes with Kyle. Stan turned to him, fully. 

“Wh— uh, I— I haven’t heard anything either. Scott sent me a text or two, but that was last night.” Kyle answered truthfully, gesturing between himself and the office door, implying the time.

“Were you at his house for the study group too?” The officer asked, jutting his chin towards Stan. 

“No!” Kyle answered quickly. Too quickly, the officer raised an eyebrow. “No, um.. he’s not— I’m not friends with him. I don’t really like him.” 

Stan bristled, reeling back a bit. “What the hell does your opinion of me have to do with any of this?”

Kyle rolled his eyes, feeling a pit of rage build in his chest. He couldn’t stop his mouth from running. “I don’t know, Stan, you seem wildly persistent on making everything about you, I figured I’d help you out.” 

“Okay, let’s— let’s take a breath.” Principal Victoria ordered, putting an end to the altercation before it got out of hand. Stan glared daggers into Kyle’s head, before he looked away. “I know this comes as a shock to you both, but the last thing we need are students turning against one another.” 

Kyle exhaled through his nose, forcefully calming the anger churning inside him. He decided to put his head back in the game. “Is there anything we can do? Should we be out looking for him?” 

The police officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I spoke to Mr. Malkinson’s mother this morning, apparently this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. And while she’s very concerned, as are the rest of us, there’s still hope that he’ll eventually show up. We’re asking you not to panic just yet.” He answered, in simple terms telling them this wasn’t something to lose their heads over. 

That much was true, Kyle thought, revisiting his original theory of Scott being passed out in his truck. If that’s where he was, it would only be a matter of time before he woke up and looked at his phone. Although, that assumption alone wasn’t enough to calm him down. 

“So, what, we’re just supposed to go on with our day and pretend like nothing’s happening?” He rebuked, furrowing his eyebrows with clear disapproval. 

Principal Victoria immediately waved her hands. “No, of course not, Kyle. We’re simply just…” She turned to the officer for help.

“Recommending.”

“Recommending,” She reiterated. “That you boys don’t go spreading this around and exaggerate the severity of the situation. Just until we know for sure what’s going on.” 

A pregnant silence filled the room, companied with excessive amounts of cologne – again, thanks to Stan – and a musty odor clogging up the air. The heating had always been dodgy in the principal’s office, lots of students complained about the smell that emitted off the radiator.

The second bell then rang, the shrill noise jolting everyone’s bones. It was a warning bell for students, anyone who tried to sit down after it rang would be marked absent. There seemed to be a collective feeling of distance between Kyle and Stan, the pair easily forgetting that they had classes to attend. Neither of them would be able to go through the rest of the day without thinking something serious was happening. Especially Kyle.

“You’re both free to go, get to your classes. I’ll let your teachers know you were with me. If you hear anything from Mr. Malkinson, please report straight to my office.” Ms. Victoria said. 

Kyle and Stan raised themselves off their chairs in sync, while the police officer escorted them towards the door. Once they filed out into the hallway, it was shut behind them, sealing off any sound. 

Kyle was unsatisfied. He was told that his friend was dangerously teetering on the line of missing, and he was asked not to panic? That wasn’t how his brain worked, and that wasn’t how he was going to leave the topic. High and dry with little to no information at all. 

Stan took a step down the left hallway, but before he could really get anywhere, Kyle stopped him.

“Alright, asshole. Fess up. Where’s Scott?” He questioned, his accusing tone causing Stan to freeze. He turned around, locking eyes with Kyle for the first time in months. 

“What the hell are you talking about? I have no idea where he is.” He answered, flipping his arms up in confusion.

Kyle shook his head, the internal rage coming back in full force. 

“That’s funny Stan, considering you just lied your fucking ass off in there!” He gestured back to Ms. Victoria’s office. “ Study group? Really? You may have dodged a bullet with the cops, but I know damn well what you were doing last night!”

Stan let his arms fall to his sides. “What are you gonna do, Kyle? Snitch? It won’t make a difference, whatever we were doing last night doesn’t matter if Scott’s still missing.” 

“So you weren’t lighting an illegal bonfire at Stark’s Pond while heavily intoxicated?” Kyle badgered him, hellbent on getting answers. 

“I never said I wasn’t, I’m saying it doesn’t fucking matter! None of my friends have seen Scott since we left last night.” Stan admitted. A plus for Kyle’s interrogation skills. However, Stan’s answer struck him as odd.

He relaxed his shoulders. “Wait, you– you’re serious? You actually don’t know where Scott is?” 

“Did you think I was lying?” Stan snapped, clearly not in the mood to continue talking to Kyle.

The redhead reeled back, utterly confused. “Well, fucking– yeah?! You and your fucking friends always have him out getting wasted, I figured you were just covering for him! You really haven’t seen him?”

Stan’s arms hit his sides again. He was growing irritated. “No, Kyle, I haven’t seen him! Do you want to keep interrogating me for the rest of the fucking day or can I go to class?”

Kyle took extreme offense to that comment. “Fuck you, Marsh! This is serious!” He berated. 

“No it’s not!” Stan immediately argued. “You heard the cop yourself, this isn’t the first time Scott’s disappeared! They told us not to panic, so we’re not going to panic! He’s fine!” 

Kyle bristled. “How do you–” 

Before he could finish his sentence, Stan let out an agitated groan. He rolled his eyes and turned away, completely ignoring whatever Kyle planned to counter him with. The redhead was forced to shut his mouth, as Stan simply walked away from him. 

“I knew you wouldn’t fucking care!” Kyle shouted to his back. 

The rest of the day went fairly quick for Kyle, although he found himself repeatedly checking his messages for any word from Scott. He had texted him multiple times throughout the afternoon, each message delivering fine, but he gained no response. Every time he turned on his phone his hopes were let down, there was nothing but an occasional notification from one of Kyle’s apps. No update on his probably hungover jock friend. 

The last time he checked his phone was ten minutes ago, when he and his friends were refilled their drinks at their booth in Sizzler’s; a restaurant down the street from South Park High. It was a frequent hangout spot for students, including Kyle’s friend group, and the most popular choice for a part time job — proven so by Kenny and Butters.

Cartman picked up another fry from his plate, tossing it across the table at Kenny’s face. The blonde flinched, hard. 

“Fucking quit it, Cartman!” He yelled, grabbing the french fry with a violent grip and hurling it back towards the boy sitting opposite to him. “I will take away your free drink privileges!” 

Cartman cackled in amusement, finding no joy in anything other than pissing off his friends.

Kyle ignored their antics, dragging his phone closer to him to check for new messages. He was getting sick of his lockscreen photo, the abstract art of a rocky mountain being burned into his memory. 

Tweek looked up from his plate, catching Kyle’s sigh when he concluded that Scott wasn’t reading any of his messages. Kyle rested his chin on his hand.

“...M-Maybe Principal Victoria is right!” Tweek knocked his knuckles on the table from underneath. “Maybe we shouldn’t worry just yet, you know?! There’s still time for Scott to– gah!– answer!” 

Cartman had another fry in his hand, winding up his arm in preparation to throw it at Kenny, but he stopped, turning to Tweek beside him. 

“Tweek, are you seriously telling us not to worry?” He jested, huffing out a laugh. “You literally look like you’re going to shit yourself every second of the day!” 

“Shut the fuck up, fatass.” Kyle immediately came to Tweek’s rescue, who silently picked up his burger to take another bite. Cartman raised his hands in mock surrender, his stupid-ass smile having yet to falter. 

“Well… Tweek does have a point, fellas.” Butters chimed in from where he stood on the floor, sweeping up crumbs from surrounding tables. He had to tilt his head back further than normal, the red Sizzler’s visor obstructing his view. “Worryin’ won’t get us anywhere except down in the dumps.”

Kyle’s hand lowered from his chin. “I don’t know, you guys. Yeah, he’s done this kind of thing before, but… this time feels different. I mean, it’s almost been eighteen hours. If he was asleep, he would have woken up by now, right?”

“M-Maybe he’s just really out if it, you know?! Like, really really needs a nap!” Tweek suggested, trying hard to keep Kyle on the positive side of things. 

Kyle looked away. “Maybe.” He muttered, slumping against the booth’s back cushions, dragging his drink along with him. He didn’t have the stomach to eat, all he felt was a pit of anxiety. “Where do you think he could be?”

“He could be anywhere, Ky. Probably hungover and asleep, just like you said.” Kenny shrugged his shoulders. “I mean we all saw that video, right?”

Kyle thought back to the video of Scott dumping lighter fluid into a fire. Stupid and dangerous, just like most of the activities Stan’s friend group got up to. At least he had fun. 

“Sure did.” Cartman answered. “I think Kahl should have taken that as a sign to grow a pair.” 

“Will you fucking drop it, Cartman?! I think we have more important things to worry about than me not wanting to go to a stupid ass party!” Kyle retorted, annoyed at Cartman’s inability to shut the fuck up. The brunette just laughed off his response, shoving his face with fries. Kyle sighed. “I don’t think he’s hungover. He would have answered our texts by now.” 

“M-Maybe he’s still— gah! — getting drunk!” Tweek said. Kyle shifted his eyes towards him. 

“For almost a whole day? Scott’s an alcoholic, but he’s not stupid. We would have at least heard something from him if that were the case.” 

“He probably got carried away, dude. It’s easy to do when you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.” Kenny brought up a fair point.

Butters stopped sweeping again. There wasn’t much that needed sweeping to begin with, the blonde boy just wanted an excuse to stand by his friends while working a shift. “Who’s the wrong crowd?” 

Kenny shot him an expectant look. “You know, St— uh… Craig, and… those guys.” He almost slipped up, glancing at Kyle. 

He didn’t care. The last thing Kyle wanted to talk about was Stan Marsh, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that he was linked to Scott’s disappearance, whether he liked it or not. 

Steering the subject was the best course of action. “Didn’t Scott’s mom slash his tires the last time this happened?” Kyle asked. 

Kenny made a noise of rebuttal, swallowing a gulp of his soda before answering. “She got his car impounded, the tires thing is a myth.” 

Cartman snickered. “I remember Scott asking me for money to get it back. I didn’t help him.” 

Kenny sneered at him. “Gee, what a shocker.” 

Cartman readied another french fry to throw in his face. 

“His parents seem pretty protective.” Kyle pointed out. “Makes me wonder why he would even risk getting in trouble again just for a good time.” 

Butters folded his hands over the broom handle. “Well, maybe he didn’t.” 

The entire booth snapped their heads to look at him. Naturally, Tweek’s eyebrows upturned with worry. “W-What the hell do you mean, Butters?!” 

Kyle twirled the wrapper for his straw around his fingers. Butters elaborated. 

“Well, think about it fellas! If Scott’s not hungover, asleep, or drunk, that only leaves one possibility! He could be in some kinuh’ trouble!” He suggested. 

“What, like a car crash?” Kenny asked. 

Cartman scoffed. “Please! The guy who threatens to throw people out of his car for not wearing their seatbelts crashed? Is it fucking opposite day for you people?!” 

“Fuck off, Cartman, Butters could be right. What if Scott’s hurt? Or worse?” Kenny said. 

Looks of concern were passed around the table. Butters picked the broom up and continued sweeping, Tweek nervously scratched at the back of his neck. Kenny tapped his hand on the table, they were all thinking the same thing.

Kyle was the one to say it. “I don’t think this town could handle it if it was worse, Kenny.” 

A tense silence fell over the group, something of a wake up call for the severity of what was going on. Principal Victoria warned Kyle not to panic, not to escalate theories, but assuming the worst was usually his brain’s first instinct. He wasn’t hardwired to be overly optimistic like Butters, or ignore every bit of the situation as long as it didn’t involve him. 

Kenny blocked another french fry from hitting his face. “Cartman, I swear on the love of fucking everything, you–” 

“Ken!” A loud voice called from across the restaurant, potentially interrupting Kenny’s murder spree. The blonde lifted his eyes to meet his and Butters’ manager, who was peeking out from behind the kitchen doors.

“Five minutes!” His manager spread his palm, signifying how long Kenny had before his break was up. 

He threw a thumbs up his way. “Coming!” He called, but the man had already disappeared back into the kitchen. Kyle watched Kenny grab his own red visor from the table, and slide out from the booth. “Be back, gotta go flip some burgers.” 

“Don’t burn yourself, Kinny!” Cartman called to him, earning himself a middle finger salute.

Kyle sighed, taking a sip of his soda. The cool liquid instantly soothed his aching throat. He closed his eyes and savored the fizzy aftertaste, while his mind whirled with thoughts. 

“I’m home!” Kyle called into his house, the only unnatural light coming from the kitchen and dining room. He shut the door behind him, turning the locks in case no one else had to go out after him. Cartman honked the horn as he drove off, down the street towards Kenny’s house. 

His mother looked up from her place at the table, sat next to Ike. “Hey, bubby, how was school?”

Kyle cringed at the nickname he’s had since he was eight, making his way into the kitchen, catching a whiff of a hot meal his father was cooking on the stove. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of talking about school, his mother was the type to have sharing time at the dinner table, everyone bringing something interesting up about their day. 

Ike had his workbook from math class spread out on the table, pencil in hand. Kyle felt for him, knowing their mother and her rules when it came to homework. They weren’t allowed to watch TV or play any video games until it was completed. Ike, however, was clearly suffering, holding a fistful of his hair in his free hand. 

Kyle didn’t have the energy to talk, let alone care, so he decided to just go for sharing. “Principal Victoria called me into her office this morning, apparently Scott didn’t come home last night.”

Sheila stopped in her tracks, about to take a sip of coffee. (it was six o’clock in the evening.) Gerald, Kyle’s father, turned around from the stove with a searing hot frying pan clutched in his palm. 

“What? What does that mean, that he’s missing?” He asked, inviting Kyle to elaborate. But the truth was that there was really nothing to elaborate on. Kyle had received no updates whatsoever from Ms. Victoria, and he knew for sure he would never get any from Stan. As far as he understood, he was in the dark just like his parents. 

So, he shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been texting him all day and he hasn’t answered. No one’s heard from him since last night.” 

Sheila placed her hand over her heart, her eyebrows knitting together with worry. She exchanged the same look with Gerald, before the man went back to cooking. “That’s horrible! I hope he’s alright!” 

Kyle nodded, fixing his backpack strap as it began slipping off his shoulder. “Me too.” He said, before taking a step back into the foyer. “I’m gonna go up to my room for a while, don’t wait up.”

Gerald turned to him again. “You don’t want to eat first? I’m making stuffed shells!” 

Kyle shook his head, already heading back to the stairs. “No, I ate at Sizzler’s.” He lied. 

“Okay, bubby, but just remember we're here for you if you need to talk!” Sheila called after him. 

While Kyle was thankful his family was there for him, he couldn’t put himself in the same room with them while his mind raced. It was too much pressure.

He climbed the stairs and turned down the hallway, feet thudding against the carpet as they walked him to his bedroom. Kyle closed the door behind him, dropping his backpack on the floor near his desk. He didn’t feel like doing homework now, or ever for that matter. He just needed time to think. 

He collapsed on his bed, the hinges of the box spring squeaking from the newly added weight. He didn’t bother positioning himself correctly, laying horizontally on the mattress. His ceiling fan was still on, probably had been the whole day he was gone, blowing a slight breeze onto his body. 

What the fuck, Kyle thought. 

Everything felt so messy, so disorganized, for the first time in a long time. Kyle was worried for Scott, especially after that conversation at Sizzler’s. He was sure Scott could hold his own if it ever came down to it, Kyle had been friends with him long before his journey to becoming a jock, the guy was extremely committed. But he hoped that him having to defend himself from danger wasn’t the case.

Despite the fan slowly cooling him down, Kyle felt himself overheating in his coat. He stood up off his bed and unzipped his jacket, tossing his phone onto his bed. He draped his jacket over the back of his desk chair to avoid wrinkles. Kyle was satisfied with just wearing a hoodie. 

He opened his bedroom door and stepped back out into the hallway, hearing clinks of silverware against ceramic from downstairs. He still wasn’t in the mood to eat, he was stressed. If he got hungry later he would just eat leftovers.

The bathroom door creaked as he pushed it open, the room already illuminated by the light from the setting sun. Kyle stepped in front of the mirror, greeted by his dull reflection. He stared for a moment or two, before growing tired of his own stare, and opening the medicine cabinet behind the glass. 

He grabbed a bottle of Tylenol and dumped two tablets into his palm. He popped them into his mouth before turning the faucet, leaning over the sink to try and wash down the pills. Kyle gulped down as much water as he could get from the little room he had. 

When he turned the faucets off again, he stopped. There was a song playing from his bedroom, faint but still distinct. It took him approximately five seconds to recognize the tune. 

Kyle audibly gasped, disregarding the open cabinet and bolting back to his bedroom. He took a sharp turn and nearly tripped over his own feet, diving for his ringing cell phone. 

Scott Malkinson’s name and contact picture flashed on the screen. 

Kyle fumbled to pick up the device, almost accidentally declining the call. His heartbeat quickened as he desperately placed the phone to his ear. “Hello?!” 

The line was silent, nothing but white noise on the other end. Kyle realized Scott must have expected him to blow up on him for not answering. He was giving Kyle the chance to berate him for his dumb decisions. 

He gladly took the opportunity. “Jesus Christ Scott, where the hell are you?! People are losing their shit here, dude, they think you’ve gone missing!” 

Another beat of silence passed. Scott knows he fucked up. 

“You’re allowed to have fun with your other friends but please have half the fucking mind to keep your phone on, okay?!” Kyle continued his lecture. “Did you call your parents? Do they know you’re alive?”

Kyle paused completely, only just then noticing that he was pacing his bedroom. He waited to hear something, anything from Scott on the other line. 

“Scott?” He called. He strained his ears, trying to listen closely. He managed to catch another noise on the phone, something that sounded like breathing. He rolled his eyes. “I’m done lecturing you, dude. I’m sure your parents will do much worse.” He said, a half-joke, attempting to get Scott to speak. 

A quick exhale echoed through the speakers, before the line beeped. Kyle furrowed his eyebrows, pulling his phone back. Scott had ended the call. 

“Wh—“ He let out a confused noise, immediately clicking on Scott’s contact again. Kyle listened to the line as it rang once, twice, three times before it went to voicemail. 

He was about to call again, but decided against it. He was at least satisfied with knowing Scott was alright. Even if the guy had a shitty way of letting him know that. Hopefully he listened to him and called his parents. 

Kyle ran his fingers through his messy red curls. 

“Fucking moron,” He murmured under his breath.

Chapter Text

Stan threw himself onto the bench, sweat dripping from his forehead. He grabbed his water bottle that sat beside him, sticking out from his sports bag as a reminder to stay hydrated. It was important to have as much energy as possible, even for a mediocre practice like this one. The South Park Cows were just getting started for the season, but that gave him no excuse to slack off. 

He took a few minutes to breathe, waiting a little impatiently for his lungs to catch up on all the exertion. He would think he’d be used to that sort of thing by now, especially with all the extra training his dad made him do at home. 

Randy always said that running was the best medicine, but the only thing Stan really liked about it was the quietness. On morning jogs he would take his earbuds with him, but not to listen to music with. Instead, he would drown himself in the silence, everything down to his heavy breathing muffled. 

He didn’t get to do that during normal practice. 

Stan was forced to let go of his water bottle as a football was hurled towards him. He caught it with both hands, barely having a clear view in his peripheral vision. He cradled the ball to his chest, turning to the person who threw it.

“Reflex test!” Kevin Stoley yelled from across the field, next to Clyde and Tolkien. They cheered at Stan’s unwillingness to participate, yet somehow he guessed he won their experiment. The three boys headed for the parking lot towards their cars, leaving only Stan and his thoughts.

Practice felt weird without the extra presence of Scott, he was like the puzzle piece that fit in perfectly with Stan’s group. His name came up a lot in the locker room before warmups, as the team discussed how they were going to play around a missing athlete. Stan hoped that he was okay, the only word he had on his last known location was from Craig – who of course left Stark’s Pond before Scott did, so really his word meant nothing. 

Stan hunched over himself to pick up his water bottle, which was now engulfed by wet grass and dirt. That was another thing he had to get used to, dirtying his belongings, sometimes to an impossible degree. He understood now why their team was given new jerseys every chance they could get them. His mom used to keep his old ones, place them between two glass panes and display them in their living room. He remembered how they all looked; threadbare, ragged and stained with grime. His newest jersey had only been stained twice, nothing that couldn’t be removed with a simple detergent.

Stan looked up just in time to see a pair of white sneakers approach him. Practice was over, the sun was setting behind the horizon, and a dark cloud loomed over the town. It had to be a cloud, since Stan knew his father’s shadow was even darker. 

“You came home late last night.” Randy mentioned, while Stan pretended to be occupied tying his shoes. 

He chose not to make eye contact. He looped his laces over his fingers, purposely taking his time. “I was studying with Clyde.” 

Randy folded his arms over his chest, disapprovingly. “That’s not what Principal Victoria told me.” 

Stan froze. Shit.

He didn’t have time to react as Randy roughly grabbed a hold of his arm. He pulled Stan off the bench until they were eye level. 

“You’re damn lucky I chose to lie for you instead of throwing you under the bus. How the hell do you think your mother would feel if you got kicked off the team? Suspended? Huh?” Randy jerked Stan around, matching his actions to his current attitude. “She would be absolutely beside herself. Then I’d be the one to blame for not properly raising you.” 

Stan tried not to think about the fact that his dad cared more about him getting kicked off the football team rather than one of his friends turning up missing. The man had yet to even mention the topic, or express any concern towards the matter. 

Stan blinked. “I’m–”

“Did you even go for a morning run today? What happens next week when you can’t meet your own standards on the field? You gonna let Middle Park kick our asses into next season?” Randy’s nails dug into his arm painfully. Stan held his breath and tried not to give a reaction, doing so would only make it worse on himself.

“No, sir.” He said through gritted teeth, still refusing to meet Randy’s intimidating eyes. His father chuckled, lowly, as he gripped the back of his neck and leaned closely towards him. 

“Either get yourself in gear, or I will.” He hissed, before all but shoving the boy away from him. He turned his back to his son, showing off his jacket with Stan’s number, 12, etched into the fabric. “I’ll see you at home.”

Stan raised his entire arm to flip the man off, holding his finger up for a whole five seconds before it began to ache. He let it fall limply against his side, taking a few more sips of water before he decided to leave. 

Stan laughed with his friends every time they talked about how cool it was that his dad was also his coach, but that was because his friends only saw the side of his dad that Randy wanted them to. They didn’t give his firm pats and stern pep talks one extra thought. After all, that was exactly what coaches were supposed to do. 

He slung his duffel bag diagonally over his shoulders, tucking away his yet to be wiped off water bottle. He watched his breath pool into its own small cloud as he exhaled, finally beginning the walk to his car. 

“Marsh!” A voice called out, beckoning for Stan’s attention. He stopped and craned his neck towards the bleachers, laying eyes on Wendy Testaburger. A small smile formed on his lips, before it dawned on him that Wendy was probably sitting there that whole time. It was likely that she bore witness to Randy’s definition of a pep talk. 

“I was hoping I’d be able to catch you before you skipped out.” She said, meeting Stan on the field. She was dressed in her usual green and white cheerleader uniform, the only difference being a lilac cardigan she wore over her torso. She jutted her chin towards Randy’s exiting vehicle. “Everything okay?”

Stan half-assed a shrug, watching his dad’s car pull out of the parking lot. “Just wasn’t my best tonight. That’s all.”

Wendy smiled. She folded her arms over herself, her cardigan clearly failing to be a good heat source in the cold. “That’s too bad, because if you were your best I would have rewarded you.” 

Stan stifled his own smile, attempting to keep his ego under control. He held his hands out, placatingly. “No thanks, Wendy, I’m– I’m all good on tongue bruises.”

Wendy rolled her eyes playfully, all too familiar with Stan’s funny bone. She fixed her gaze on the ground, gliding her sneaker across the slick grass. 

“I… wanted to thank you, for covering for me to Principal Victoria.” Wendy said. And as some of hair fell to the front of her shoulders, she tucked the strands back behind her ear. “You didn’t have to, but you did, which saved my ass from a severe grounding.”

Stan huffed, relishing in the moment. This was a rare one for him, Wendy talking to him after she teased the previous night that that specific outcome would be very unlikely. 

“Well I’m glad someone appreciates my ability to lie on the spot.” He quipped, insinuating that no one else from their group had thanked him for lying on their behalf. “I’ll always be honored to be your alibi, Ms. Testaburger.” 

Wendy laughed, picking her head up. “Not sure that plan will work forever, but I’ll hang onto it as long as I can.” She said, before her expression faded into something a little more serious. “How are you doing? With, the.. Scott news and all.” 

Stan turned and took a step towards the parking lot, silently inviting Wendy to follow him. She immediately got the message. 

“It’s weird,” He answered truthfully, “That he hasn’t texted us yet. I mean, this isn’t the first time he’s disappeared for a day, but it’s the longest he's gone without giving us any kind of update. And it’s the first time he’s missed practice in, like, a year.” 

Wendy looked up at him. “Are you worried?”

Stan stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “Not really. I’m sure he’s fine, I mean if he’s done this before he must know how to bounce back, right? Especially if there’s a hangover involved.” 

Wendy let out a hum of approval. “That sounds like Scott alright.”

“Yeah.” Stan chuckled softly, at the same time as a nearby cricket began chirping. “I just hope he’s smart about coming clean. The last thing we need is to be down a player at our kickoff game.” 

“I’m sure he’ll pull through.” Wendy empathized, knocking her shoulder into Stan’s arm. A sweet gesture. 

A comfortable silence fell between the two, while the sounds of nature took over the night. The breeze was calmer now, barely rustling the strands of black hair that rested on Stan’s head. The air was still cold, but all the fog had dissipated as the day went on, finally making it clear to see. 

It wasn’t long before they reached Stan’s jeep. Wendy hung back a few feet while Stan loaded his sports bag into the backseat. He walked around the car, meeting Wendy by the hood. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He said, his statement sounding something akin to a question. He didn’t want to assume, after all, Wendy was as unpredictable as she was attractive. 

“…Why tomorrow?” Wendy murmured, trailing her eyes all the way up Stan’s frame. “You see me now.”

Mildly taken aback, Stan’s eyebrows shot upwards. He couldn’t for the life of him hold back his smirk. He had forgotten just how good Wendy Testaburger was at flirting. 

“So if I asked you again, if you wanted to make out, would your answer still be the same as last night?” Stan very stupidly asked. By that time, Wendy knew he was messing with her. So, she took matters into her own hands.

Wendy reached out and grabbed Stan’s jacket with both hands, dragging him close to her face. She trained her eyes on his slightly parted lips. “Why don’t you find out, Stan Marsh?”

Smiling as if he’d won every competition to exist, Stan inched closer to Wendy’s lips. Seconds away from closing the gap between them, a jarring tune sounded from his phone. He pulled away while releasing an irritated groan.

“Just my luck,” He murmured under his breath, which hadn’t gone unnoticed to Wendy. She laughed, biting her bottom lip in amusement. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of chances for that.” She said, trailing her fingers along Stan’s shoulder, before stepping backwards. “You’ll see me tomorrow?”

Stan watched her with steady eyes, while he fished for his ringing phone inside his pocket. “Is that a question or a promise?”

Wendy shrugged, but ultimately chose not to answer. She turned her back to him, heading towards the school. Stan fell into a trance shortly after, imagining what could have been. That was, until he remembered the aggravating sound of his ringtone. 

He glanced down at his phone, immediate shock replacing his lustful expression. A picture of Scott Malkinson, wearing sunglasses upside down, was flashing on the screen. It was a tremendously stupid photo that Stan had taken months ago, at a fourth of July party back in the summer. 

He swiped the screen faster than he ever had before. Placing the phone to his ear, panic encased him. “Scott?!”

Stan wasn’t sure if it was Scott’s uneven breaths that resounded from the other line, or if it was his own. Either way, his missing friend had yet to respond. The call was silent as far as he could hear, which jammed his brain with confusion. 

“Thanks for the fucking call, asshole. You freaked everyone out for nothing. Are you proud of yourself now?” He berated, a cloud of air leaving his mouth as he exhaled. 

Stan looked over his surroundings, as he stood in the middle of an empty parking lot. The air was heavy with an eerie atmosphere, the only lighting being the streetlights above him. 

“Hello?” He called, rather impatiently, lifting up his arm and letting it hit his side. Stan received no answer, still on the phone with what could have been a brick wall. 

Suddenly, the line clicked. Puzzled, he pulled the phone away, realizing that Scott had hung up on him. Greatly annoyed that Scott had managed to piss him off twice in the same day, Stan quickly opened his messages and began typing to him. 

To: Malkinson: wtf dude

Stan sent the message, sighing when the text was delivered. He pocketed his phone again, deciding to let his other friends lecture Scott for skipping practice. 

Stan tried his hardest not to slam the front door behind him. The crosses on his foyer wall already shook and threatened to fall with even the slightest disturbance. When walking up his driveway he could see the light from the TV on in the living room, meaning his father was probably either drunk or getting drunk.

Stan hung his coat on the rack and walked straight into the kitchen, avoiding the living room at all costs. The curtains on the back door were drawn back, the porch light flipped off. Sparky was likely left outside. Stan frowned, knowing if he let the dog inside before his father went to sleep, there would be hell to pay. 

“Stanley! Get in here!” His father then yelled, as soon as Stan reached the kitchen. He paused, shutting his eyes in a silent prayer. 

He turned around and headed towards the living room, where his father laid draped over the sofa, two empty bottles of beer on the coffee table. There was a third in his hand, though slipping through fingers the drunker the man became.

“Yeah,” Stan announced his presence, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

Randy craned his neck to look at him in the doorframe. The TV illuminated only half of his face, the rest up for interpretation thanks to the shadows. “You still friends with that Broflovski boy?”

Stan furrowed his eyebrows, wondering why the hell his dad would ever bring up that name again. Although, he guessed if their parents were still friends, it would make sense. Still, he quickly became uncomfortable.

“No. Not really.” He said.

Randy groaned as he sat up, the pillow he’d been leaning on falling to the floor. He placed his beer bottle on the table along with his others. “Well, starting next week that’s gonna have to change.” 

Stan reeled back, now more confused than he was uncomfortable. “What?” 

“Gerald and Sheila are going on vacation. They asked me if you’d be okay with driving Kyle and his little brother to school until they get back. I told them yes.” 

“You— what?!” Stan shouted, shock encasing his body. He would have asked his father to repeat himself, but he thought that hearing those words a second time would somehow be worse.

Randy stood up, drawing himself bigger. “Now, I know that boy has a reputation, and I know you know better than to try anything with him, but I’m only going to say this once.” Stan stared his father in the eyes as he approached him, staggering along until they were face to face. “This is a favor to Gerald and Sheila. I’d like to stay on their good side.” 

Stan balled his hands into fists, the action unseen by his father. He already knew what Randy was going to say, he knew everything he was going to warn him about, which made him even angrier.

“...But if I see, or hear, anything about you and that boy,” Randy pushed his finger into Stan’s chest. “You’ll be in deep shit. So deep you won’t ever see the end of it. Got it?” 

Stan strained himself trying to avoid talking back. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His father had the audacity to arrange something that involved Stan without his permission, but that wasn’t even the part he was upset about. 

He was upset about Kyle. 

Rage boiled in his blood and heated his skin, Stan could almost feel the steam erupting from his ears. “Yes, sir.”

Randy turned around and plopped back down on the couch without another word. Stan was forced to contain his anger to the best of his ability. There were so many things he could’ve broken right then. So many words he could have yelled in his father’s face. 

But doing so wouldn’t change anything. He was completely, and utterly, fucked. 

Mornings in the Brofiovski household were rarely ever quiet, and Kyle rarely ever woke up to his actual alarm. Sometimes he would try to guess what the winning sound would be that tore him so rudely out of his slumber. Yesterday, it was the sound of his father dropping an iron skillet on the kitchen floor, followed by yelling various obscenities. The day before that, it was lke arguing with their mother about his shower schedule — apparently he 'doesn't think he smells.' 

This time, on a Thursday morning, Kyle woke up to a high-pitched ding belonging to his cell phone. When he first cracked open his eyes, everything in his bedroom was dark. He groaned, thinking he'd once again woken up too early. It was never easy for him to fall back asleep, especially on weekdays.

Kyle blindly reached for his phone on the nightstand, lifting it off its charger. The screen blinked to life, he quickly changed the brightness settings as to not kill his vision so early in the morning.

The bottom of his screen was filled with typical notifications, messages from his friends, instagram, and of course snapchat. It was six o'clock, which was only a whopping fifteen minutes before Kyle's alarm was supposed to go off. He mindlessly scrolled through his notifications, reading up on what he missed. There wasn’t much that was life-or-death important, so Kyle opted to just get up and shower. 

The hot water felt heavenly on his skin, expelling all the goosebumps that rose on his arms. The steam clogged his vision and filled the bathroom with a white haze, mimicking the morning fog outside. When Kyle stepped out of the shower he wrapped a towel around his waist, then pulled down the window to help air out the steam. The contrasting temperature made him shiver.

He wiped the mirror with his hand, although it hadn't done much other than distort his reflection, since the glass wasn't dry. Kyle attacked his hair with a towel, growing annoyed since he knew he couldn't avoid it from frizzing. Instead, he grabbed a bottle of gel and squeezed a bit onto his hands. He combed through his curls, trying to get them to calm down.

When Kyle walked downstairs for breakfast – no doubt another trial and error recipe feast made by his father – he heard Ike’s voice, which was strange, considering Kyle’s little brother liked sleeping in more than he liked video games. He rounded the bottom of the stairs, making his way into the kitchen. 

His parents, and Ike, were gathered around at the kitchen table. There was a bowl of steaming breakfast potatoes in the middle of them, along with a sheet of bacon and eggs. Kyle’s stomach growled. This time, his father’s cooking smelled good. 

“What’s going on?” 

Sheila looked up from whatever she held in her hands. Upon getting a closer look, Kyle noticed it was a brochure. Curious, he sat down at the table with his family. 

“Your father and I were just discussing our anniversary trip!” Sheila informed him, enthusiastically flipping the brochure over so that Kyle could see. “We were thinking about a cruise this year.”

Kyle took the brochure from Sheila’s hands. “A cruise?” He pondered, turning over each page and skimming over the details. “In September? Won’t it be cold?” 

Gerald pushed the bowl of potatoes closer to Kyle, silently encouraging him to take some for himself. “September is actually the perfect time for a cruise, Kyle! It avoids the busy season and the oceans will still be warm enough to swim in!” 

Kyle handed the brochure back to Sheila, before grabbing a spare plate. He scooped potatoes onto his plate, along with some eggs. “Well how long is it?”

“Two weeks at the most.” Sheila answered, sipping her cup of coffee. “We leave on Sunday morning.” 

Kyle nearly dropped his fork before he could bite into his food. “You already booked the flights?! I thought you said you were thinking about it?!”

“We did! And, we both agreed that it would be a nice change of scenery!” Gerald replied, a little too carelessly for Kyle’s liking.

“Well–” Kyle’s brain was teetering on the line of malfunctioning. “How are Ike and I gonna get to school? Who’s driving you to the airport?” 

“Mom said we could stay home.” Ike said, before stuffing his face full of bacon. Kyle’s jaw dropped.

Sheila rolled her eyes, waving her hand at Ike. “Don’t listen to your brother, of course you’re still going to school. We worked all of that out with Randy.” 

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Randy?” He echoed, pausing to think of who his mother was talking about. Then, it clicked. “Randy Marsh?! Randy Marsh is gonna drive you to the airport?!”

His parents both shared a look. Gerald sighed. “Now, Kyle, just because you and Stanley stopped being friends doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed to speak to his parents.”

Kyle bristled at this. “Wh– We didn’t stop being friends, Dad, he humiliated me in front of the entire school!” 

Sheila set her coffee mug down, the ceramic thudding against the table. “Bubby, that was seven years ago. Maybe he’s changed as a person?”

Kyle slouched his shoulders. “He really hasn’t, Mom. And I’m not comfortable with any of this!” 

“Well it’s a damn good thing it’s not up to you then, huh?” Gerald shut down Kyle’s concerns. “As for you and your brother, Randy said that Stanley would be more than happy to drive you to and from school.” 

“WHAT?!” Kyle bellowed out, jolting up from his seat and shaking the table. “Are you fucking kidding me, Dad?! Did you not hear anything I just said to you?!”

“Watch your language, Kyle!” Sheila pointed her finger at her raging son. Kyle dropped back down onto his seat, arms folded in disapproval. 

He shot his mother an appalled look. “Do either of you remember how hard I cried that day?! Do you remember how hurt I was?! Do you even care?!” 

“Of course we care, Kyle!” Gerald answered immediately. “But you were both kids! I’m sure that Stanley has matured since that day.” 

Kyle slumped back against his chair. “Un-fucking-believable.” 

He tried to stop his brain from recalling back to that day, the day Kyle lost every ounce of trust and respect for Stan Marsh. Everything happened within a span of thirty seconds, thirty long seconds that turned into traumatizing days, weeks, months at school. Kyle’s classmates were relentless. They called him every name in the book. They painted him as some kind of disease. 

“It’s only for two weeks, Kyle.” Sheila reminded him, which didn’t help his case at all whatsoever. If anything, just hearing the amount of time Kyle would be forced to endure close proximity with Stan Marsh made him want to vomit. 

Gerald added on, “But if you can find yourself another ride to school, by all means.” 

“You know I don’t allow jews in my car, Kahl.” Cartman immediately shut him down, which Kyle knew was a lie.

Gerald was always the one to take him and Ike to school, but when Cartman was granted his driver’s license, the boy had driven all of their friends home for weeks. He still did, of course now it was only Kyle and Kenny, since Butters had his own car and Tweek would ride with his parents. Cartman was still a reliable option. But now, he was just being a dick. He knew how desperate Kyle was, he just wanted to mess with him. 

Groaning, Kyle turned to Butters. “Butters?!” 

The blonde boy was in the middle of chewing his ham and cheese sandwich. Kyle impatiently waited for him to finish. 

“Sorry, Kyle… if my dad found out I was driving with passengers he’d ground me til’ Christmas!” He said, much to Kyle’s dismay.

Kyle groaned again, loudly, dropping his head against the cafeteria table. He was completely out of options. Kenny’s family couldn’t afford another car payment, and with most of his paychecks going towards bills, he barely had any money of his own. Tweek wasn’t allowed to drive, not that the boy would ever want to, since he was terribly afraid of the road. The only people he trusted to drive him anywhere were his own parents. 

“What the fuck am I gonna do?” Kyle’s voice was muffled slightly from his face being covered with his arms.

Kenny patted his back supportingly, although the gesture wasn’t doing much to help. “You could always fake measles. Cartman did that freshman year, remember?”

Kyle lifted his head. “Yeah, Cartman also managed to get himself quarantined on the private floor of a hospital. Remember?” 

Cartman let out a cackle, mouth full of potato chips. “HA! Yeah, that was hilarious.”

Kyle sobbed, dropping his head back down against the table. “It’s hopeless! I’m gonna be stuck in a car with Stan Marsh for two weeks straight!” 

“Well, it could be worse!” Butters shrugged his shoulders. “You could be stuck in a car with Stan and have measles!”

Kyle sighed. “…Not helping, Butters.”

The cafeteria was filled with chatter, as it normally was, each and every student having their own conversations. Their own issues to worry about. By this time, Kyle was usually just finishing up his lunch, but today he didn’t feel like touching his food. Today, he felt betrayed. 

Tweek perked up, like how he did when he had a good idea. “How about an uber?! One of those— augh! — ride sharing apps?!”

Kyle scrubbed a hand over his face, resting his chin on his palm. “I’m not paying for a ride to school, Tweek. I’d be broke before the end of the first week.” 

“How about walking? We used to do that all the time.” Kenny brought up, nudging Kyle’s shoulder. The ginger just groaned in response.

“Yeah, in middle school, Kenny. When we lived three blocks away.”

“So? What’s an extra—“ Kenny paused, thinking. “Four?”

Kyle shot him an unimpressed glare. The blonde’s shoulders sunk with mild humility. 

“Okay, I see your point.” 

Kyle rolled his eyes, before letting his mind wander. He’d already been over every possible option he could take over riding to school with Stan Marsh. But, the only one that would have really worked was walking. He’d have to wake up at an ungodly hour, then walk two miles in the freezing cold. Then again on his way home. But that wouldn’t help Ike either, since his little brother still needed a ride, and Kyle knew that Ike wouldn’t be caught dead walking to school. Another problem.

Then, something dawned on Kyle. A light flicked on inside his brain, remembering that there was one other person he hadn’t taken into account. Quickly, he sat up and grabbed his phone, eagerly typing a message. The action caught Kenny’s attention.

“What are you doing?” He asked, watching over Kyle’s shoulder. 

“I’m asking Scott for a ride. There is no way in hell I’m giving up.” Kyle answered, his fingers tapping furiously against the screen. 

He ignored the way his friends all shared the same look. Kenny decided to be the one to say it. 

“Kyle.. Scott’s still missing.” He said, his words taking a few extra seconds to sink into Kyle’s brain. 

The moment they finally did, he froze. His message was half typed. He turned to Kenny. “Say that again?”

“You dream about him or something?” Cartman teased, crumpling up his bag of chips and shoving them in his backpack. “Wouldn’t put it past you, queer.” 

“Cartman, just because Kyle’s gay doesn’t mean he likes every guy. Fucking moron.” Kenny defended. 

Kyle stopped, turning to each of his friends. He couldn’t understand what he was hearing. “Wait, you— none of you guys have heard from Scott? He’s still AWOL?”

 “Well, no.” Butters replied. “Have you, Kyle?”

“No!” He yelled, a little too quickly. Kenny raised his eyebrows in surprise. Kyle shut his phone off, disregarding the text completely. “I mean— no. No. I just… I forgot. Sorry.”

“Kahl, if you’re having wet dreams about Scott, you can say something. We won’t be grossed out. Swear.” Cartman said. 

Kenny kicked him from under the table. “Shut up, fatass!”

Kyle tuned them out while they argued. His mind buzzed with confusion. Scott was still missing? That part made sense, considering Kyle had yet to see the brunette today, especially since their schedules would have already overlapped. But— he thought that Scott’s parents were just keeping him home, he thought that they planned to lecture him all day like the last time he disappeared.

What didn’t make sense was why Scott called him yesterday, when he didn’t call anyone else. Why he contacted Kyle before contacting his own parents. More importantly, why didn’t he say anything to Kyle over the phone? 

Kyle’s stomach churned with anxiety. He didn’t like the path his thoughts were taking. He didn’t like anything about this.

“What about…“ Tolkien began, lifting his hands. “Poker.” 

“Poker?” Craig echoed, craning his neck to look at Tolkien. “At a house party?”

“Not just any house party, Craig — a seniors only house party!” 

“What’s the difference?” Kevin chimed in, tossing a football back and forth between him and Clyde.

Tolkien scoffed. “The difference is we won’t have annoying ass underclassmen hogging all the hard stuff! It’ll be a night of peace, and happiness.” 

“Oh, like the declaration of independence.” Clyde said, earning himself a puzzled look from Craig. 

“Not even close, dude.” He said, holding back a chuckle. 

Tolkien rolled his eyes, glancing at the moping boy to his right. Stan was laying across the second row of the gymnasium bleachers, staring at the ceiling. 

“What do you think, Stan? You’re coming tomorrow, right?” Tolkien asked, nudging Stan’s leg with his foot. Craig turned to him too, ready to rip on him if he planned on saying no.

Stan finally averted his gaze from the roof, turning to Tolkien. “Hm?”

Gym class for athletes was almost like a free period. PC Principal stated that if a student played any kind of physical sport, that they had the choice of opting out of P.E. activities. Something about overworking their muscles, or whatever. Stan was thankful to have a break from straining his muscles. He didn’t get enough of those when he trained with his father. 

Randy was merciless when it came to that. Stan remembered the months leading up to football tryouts, even though he had been on the team since freshman year — each member was required to participate in tryouts, for the sake of reevaluating their abilities. Stan was usually off the charts, but that was because he knew that if he wasn’t, Randy wouldn’t let him rest. 

So, for that period, Stan allowed his mind to run, fueled by anger and resentment towards his father. Normally, he was angry about the fact that football was more important to him than his own son’s health. But today, Stan had a different reason. 

He would rather stick a toothpick under his toenail and drive it into a wall, than have to drive Kyle Broflovski to school every morning. It was worse than a chore. Worse than a punishment. It was torture. Did the universe fucking hate him? Did he not give enough effort already? Why did he deserve this?

“I asked if you were still coming tomorrow,” Tolkien repeated himself, now that Stan was fully present in the conversation.

“Oh.” Stan said, bending one of his legs. “I don’t know. I guess.”

“Dude, you look like your cat just got run over by a truck. What’s up with you?” Tolkien pointed out. Clyde and Kevin stopped tossing the football, invested in whatever Stan was going to say. 

“I’m just.. pissed.” He admitted, finally sitting up on the bleachers. “I mean why the hell would my dad think I’d be okay with this?” 

Not that he even cared about Stan’s opinion in the first place.

“Dude, so what. You gotta drive some little twerp to school for two weeks, it’s not the end of the world.” Tolkien said, disregarding Stan’s feelings.

“It’s not just any twerp, Tolkien, it— it’s Kyle Broflovski.” Stan reminded him, the name like venom on his tongue. 

“…Broflovski?” Kevin echoed, turning to the others for further clarification. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He’s the kid that Stan outed in sixth grade.” Craig promptly answered. 

“Oh-ho-ho, shit!” Clyde placed the back of his hand on his mouth, incredulity overlapping his expression. “You gotta drive him to school?! Fucking awkward!”

“Shut up, Clyde!” Tolkien yelled, the brunette shrinking under his stare. 

Kevin turned to Stan, an amused smirk on his lips. “Dude, you outed someone?”

Stan rolled his eyes so far back he was sure he saw his brain. He ignored Kevin’s question, laying back down on the bleachers. He’d told this story so many times already. He’d recounted that day so many times already. Enough was enough. 

“He had no choice, the kid was like, weirdly obsessed with him or something.” Craig said, going over it on Stan’s behalf. 

Kevin raised both of his brows. “Seriously?”

Craig nodded. “Stalked him, tried to kiss him, the whole nine yards.” 

“Fucking whacko behavior, he got what he deserved.” Clyde chimed in. “Though I still think you should have gotten a restraining order, Stan.” 

Kevin climbed up the bleachers, sitting one level under Stan. “Now I’m confused why your dad would think you were comfortable with this.” 

Stan sighed. He should have expected this. He sat up straight again, bringing his legs over the seat. “It’s only for two weeks. And it’s not like I have to talk to him, we can just… drive in silence.”

“What if he tries to kiss you again?” Clyde said, which caused Stan to tense up. Tolkien took notice of this, and reached over to punch Clyde in the shoulder. The brunette recoiled in pain, rubbing his arm. 

Stan huffed out a laugh, internally thanking Tolkien for taking care of Clyde’s stupidity. He decided a subject change would do him some good.

“Where’s Scott? Still getting ripped on by his parents?” He asked, mindlessly checking the time on his phone. It was close to the end of the day, not that Stan had much to look forward to, at this point being at school was better than being at home.

The lack of response to his question grabbed his attention. Stan looked up from his phone, meeting the puzzled eyes of his friends.

“What?” He called. 

Craig exchanged a look with Tolkien, the closest one to him. “Dude, Scott’s still missing. Has been since yesterday. We thought you knew that.”

“Yeah, you were one of the first people questioned, weren’t you? In Principal Victoria’s office?” Kevin added. 

Stan's heart dropped. He was surprised when no one noticed how he paled. He shook his head, ridding his face of shock. “Y-yeah.. Sorry, I- just.. forgot." He said, but panicked when his friends' expressions hadn't faltered. "I mean, it- it's instinct to talk about him, you know?"

This seemed to work. Tolkien looked away. "Yeah. I get that."

The eyes were off him, but Stan didn't feel any better. He knew he had gotten a call from Scott, he remembered it as if it had happened five minutes ago. The eerie feeling that crept onto him like a shadow, standing still in the middle of a deserted parking lot. Curious, he opened up his recent calls list to check if Scott's number was still there. He wanted to make sure he hadn't dreamt it. He scrolled down to last night, around the time he left the school.

Sure enough, Scott's name stood out like a sore thumb. Stan opened his mouth again, to come clean about the call. But, he closed it when he remembered that Scott never even said anything to him. All he had heard through the phone was breathing. It was odd, and a little disturbing, but nothing substantial. Nothing worth calling attention to.

Right?

“I’m home!” Kyle called into his house, hearing as Cartman’s SUV pulled away, down the block and towards Kenny’s house. 

He dropped his backpack on the floor by the staircase, rather loudly. He wanted to express how much he hated his parents’ new little arrangement, and how they lacked the decency to even talk to him about it first. It was like a slap in the face, his feelings forgotten even though he’d never felt pain like that before. He got home from school that day and cried until there were no tears left, his throat sore and his voice raw. 

And his parents thought it would be good for him. They thought it would be the closure he needed to move on. How could someone move on from that kind of pain? Kyle lost everything that day, even part of himself. 

“Hey, Kyle. How was school?” Gerald asked as Kyle passed the living room, heading to the kitchen for something to drink. He chose not to respond. 

Sheila was in the kitchen, much to Kyle’s distress. Her back was turned to him, as she wiped down the dining table with a wet rag. He noted that it was his mother’s time to deep clean the house, as she always did before leaving for a trip. As she always said, there was nothing worse than coming home from vacation to a messy house. 

Kyle opened the fridge and grabbed a can of coca-cola, lifting the tab and cracking it open. Sheila finally turned around, minutes after Gerald greeted his son.

“Kyle, I know you aren’t a fan of this arrangement, but it’s the best we could do on short notice.” She said, moving from the dining table to the kitchen island. She grabbed a half-empty bottle of cleaning spray, dampening the towel again. 

“I would have rathered you hire a babysitter, Mom. This is significantly worse.” Kyle replied, with as much sass as he could muster. He downed half of his soda in a matter of seconds. 

Sheila paused her cleaning, letting out a deep sigh. She dropped the rag carelessly on the countertop, placing her hand on her hip. 

“I don’t see why it is so hard for you to just move on. Holding grudges doesn’t get you anywhere in life, Kyle. Stanley has offered to do this favor for us, which means he found it in himself to move forward with his life. Why can’t you do the same?” 

Kyle slammed the coke can down on the island, splashing soda all over the freshly cleaned counter. Sheila recoiled in surprise, flinching when a few drops of coke had hit her. 

“It wasn’t my decision to tell the world I’m gay, Mom, that is the whole point I am trying to make! Why can’t you understand how important that was to me?! I’ll never be able to get that privacy back, and I’ll never get the chance to come out on my own terms! He took that from me just like he took every ounce of my trust!” 

Sheila stared at him, eyes wide with unreadable emotion. Kyle didn’t care enough to find out what it was. Instead, he left his fizzing can of coke on the counter, and stormed upstairs to his room. 

Kyle slammed his door, ignoring the threats his father yelled up to him about being grounded. Quite frankly, he couldn’t care less. Being grounded was the least of his worries now, considering he’d soon be forced to ride to school with his arch nemesis. 

Kyle sprawled out on his bed, watching the ceiling fan as it circled above him. He wanted to think of something, anything other than the darkest places of his mind. He knew that was the first thing his thoughts would jump to, how inevitable it was that he felt the same pain he did seven years ago. 

On top of that were his worries for Scott Malkinson. He had called Kyle yesterday, but gave no indication of his whereabouts, or if he was even okay. The more Kyle thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. Scott chose to contact him over anyone else? Before his parents, before the rest of their friends?

That was another thing — why would Scott only call Kyle? His only explanation would be that it was an accident, but even that perspective lacked a little bit of logic. Scott was a nerd, like Kyle and his friends, but he was also on the football team. It had been a while since Kyle last saw Scott’s contact list, but he remembered seeing multiple names he didn’t even recognize. 

Scott was popular, there was no doubt about it. So the probability of him accidentally calling Kyle, over the near hundreds of other numbers in his phone, was extremely low. Which leads his theories to a dead end. 

Kyle sighed. He wasn’t sure how these next few weeks would play out, or if he’d even manage to make it through them in one piece. All he could do was tough it out, and pray that it would be over quickly. 

Stark’s Pond and the surrounding forest was a popular destination for joggers, or anyone who looked to have alone time for themselves. It was quiet in the mornings, peaceful at night, and as long as there were no high schoolers passed out by the lake, it was usually a reliable place to clear one’s head. 

Of course, with the cold seasons approaching quicker than South Park residents would have liked, the bike paths became less and less occupied as the months proceeded. Stark’s Pond would be lucky to have at least one morning jogger, the rest of them opting to drive to the gym for a warmer place to work out. 

For a jogger like PC Principal, better known as Peter Charles, he didn’t mind the cold weather. In fact, he embraced it, living by his opinion of Fall and Winter being the best time to run. And with almost everyone disagreeing with him, Peter had Stark’s Pond all to himself. 

It was a rather large area to cover, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Peter set his daily alarm for four A.M., and completed his morning routine before leaving for a run. He had plenty of time to circle the entire lake before he’d need to head to the school. 

Peter executed his breaths as evenly as he could, while he pumped his legs back and forth with immense speed. He was halfway around the lake, coming up near the clearing that was commonly used as a hangout spot for the younger South Park residents. Peter drifted his gaze over the water, the dark lake glistening under the moon, which was still high above the horizon. The sky was gradually fading into a lighter blue with every passing minute. Peter had approximately one hour before dawn. One hour to finish his jog before his responsibilities would become urgent. 

He quickened his pace while his heartbeat increased, getting his last few feet of sprinting in before he had to stop for a break. When that time came, Peter slowed his running to a complete stop, placing his hands on his hips as he regained his composure. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, the best method to avoid panting. 

Peter wiped his hand across his forehead, sweat coating the back of his palm. He turned towards the lake, the clearing in the woods giving him more than enough space to clearly see the view. He reached for his phone, which was velcroed to a strap across his bicep, the most efficient way of keeping the device from falling off his person. 

Peter swiped on his screen to open the camera, wanting to capture a picture of the lake and share it online. Only, when he accessed the camera, the lense was set to face himself. He tsked, moving his thumb to flip the camera around. But, before he clicked the button, something caught his eye. 

Behind him, hanging next to the tree trunks, was what looked like a pair of human legs. 

Startled out of his mind, Peter whipped his body around, checking to see if his theory was correct. 

“Oh— oh, dear God!” 

His widened eyes fixated on the grisly sight before him. Peter’s phone slipped through his fingers like butter, as he rushed to cover his mouth before any bile could escape his throat. 

There was a body hung from the trees, arms strung up like a puppet. The short hair and frame indicated it was a male, his bare chest ripped apart with wounds that were stained with dried blood. Around his neck was a tightly wrapped piece of rope, colored dark red with fluid. 

Peter couldn’t contain the way his stomach twisted in on itself. He hunched over and released every ounce of food he swallowed that morning, along with anything from the night before. 

He blindly reached for his cellphone, turning his back to the morbid scene before him.

Chapter Text

Kyle liked to think of himself as a light sleeper. Of course, he had no trouble sleeping through his father’s abhorrent snoring, but if a disaster were to happen that he’d need to evacuate for, Kyle would most likely be the first one out of the house. He was good at waking up on a whim, which was why he usually couldn’t fall back asleep after hearing his alarm. It vitalized a fight or flight response in him, even if it only lasted for a few seconds. 

Kyle was balancing on the line of consciousness, but his body pulled him back under the influence of sleep each time he thought he was going to wake up. Suddenly, he was ripped from his dreams by the sound of banging on his bedroom door. Kyle shot upwards, facing his headboard as he had been laying on his stomach.

“Kyle!” Sheila shouted from behind the door, the undertone of her voice mimicking something dangerously close to fear. “Kyle, get downstairs! You need to see this!”

Kyle, now on full alert, kicked the covers off his body and rushed into the hallway. His mother was already halfway down the stairs. He quickly followed suit, sliding his hand along the railing as he took the steps two at a time. Sheila led the way into the living room, where Kyle’s ears caught something playing loudly on the TV. 

Gerald was standing next to the couch, with Kyle’s brother pressed tightly into his side, Ike’s horrified gaze matching their father’s. Kyle felt his gut twist in the worst way. He followed his family’s eyes, training his own on the television, where a newscast occupied the screen.

Kyle immediately recognized the background where a woman was standing – it was Stark’s Pond. Yellow caution tape was wrapped around a small area of the forest, with several police officers and paramedics surrounding it. Kyle listened to the woman as she spoke.

“—The victim was identified as seventeen-year-old high school student Scott Malkinson, who was reported missing just over two days before Peter Charles, vice principal at South Park High School, made the discovery.”

“Wh— what–” Kyle stammered, his eyes burning into the television screen.

“Malkinson’s body was found hanging by his neck and wrists, with fourteen lacerations across his torso, following with another across his throat. Officials state that the teenager had been dead for approximately fifty-four hours, placing his time of death to be sometime on the night of Tuesday, September 25th. Residents of South Park, Colorado, are shocked and appalled in light of this new information—“

“Kyle, bubby…” Sheila sobbed. She hovered her hands over Kyle’s shoulder, expecting that a simple touch would set him off. 

Kyle blanked out. He studied every pixel on the screen before him, eyes flinching with every little movement the woman made. He could feel his blood rushing to his ears, deafening the world around him to a high-pitched ringing. His body felt hot, excruciatingly warm while his head filled itself with mindless static. 

“Son…” Gerald said, voice gentle as if he were approaching a feral animal. “Kyle… are you alright?”

Kyle snapped his head towards his father, only then noticing how rapidly his chest rose and fell. Was he hyperventilating? He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel his arms, or his fingers. He couldn’t hear well, either. It was like he was pushed underwater, every sound around him muffled and distant. His throat closed up, there was water clogging his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. 

Kyle couldn’t stop his legs from buckling underneath his weight, completely losing his sense of balance. He fell to his knees on the living room floor, the frightened voice of his mother could be heard somewhere to his right. Kyle didn’t understand what she was yelling at him about, the words rolled off her tongue and flew over his head – was she speaking another language?

Suddenly, a coherent thought crossed Kyle’s mind. He remembered– a phone call, Scott had called him, two days ago. But– but that didn’t make sense now. Unless–

Kyle’s eyebrows furrowed. “No..”

“Kyle–!” Sheila raised her voice when Kyle scrambled to his feet, bolting back towards the stairs. He locked his eyes forward, barely registering how many steps his feet had to take until he reached his bedroom. 

But when he did, he burst through his door and shut it behind him, diving for his phone which lay innocently on his night stand. Kyle’s hands shook furiously while he scrolled through his contacts, clicking on Scott’s as soon as it appeared on his screen. He placed his phone to his ear with a crushing grip, still hearing a faint ringing from the shock.

“You’ve reached Malkinson, leave–”

Kyle hung up, and called back. The call rang four times.

“You’ve reached Malkin–”

Kyle released a frustrated yell, hurling his phone onto his mattress. The device bounced once before laying flat on his comforter. He circled his bed, pacing back and forth while threading his fingers through his hair. He tried frantically to control his breathing, before he became manic again. 

Then, one of Kyle’s ringtones began playing, only for about two seconds, since Kyle fumbled to quickly pick up his phone. He didn’t bother to check the contact.

“Who the fuck is this?!” He screamed, desperate for answers. Despite not talking much, Kyle’s throat was beginning to ache. It became irritated the more he swallowed, gulping down his feelings of anguish.

“Woah, dude, it– it’s me! It’s Kenny!” A familiar voice replied to him over the phone. Kyle wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not to hear that. “Are you okay?! Did you–”

“Hear the news? Yes, Kenny, fuck!” Kyle finished for him, pressing his fingers into his brows. His brain pounded behind his eyes, circulating a deep pain throughout his head. 

“What the hell is going on, Ky?!” Kenny’s panicked voice wasn’t helping Kyle think straight, in fact it only encouraged more irrational thoughts to flood his mind. His head became a baseless abyss of overwhelming emotion. 

“I don’t fucking know, Kenny, I–” Kyle forced himself to stop. His stomach roiled with nausea, his throat began to itch with bile threatening to escape. He pulled the phone away from his ear, carelessly allowing it to fall to the floor. He ripped open his bedroom door and sprinted to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door as he collapsed near the toilet. Kyle lifted the lid just in time, as vomit slid up his throat and into the water. He heaved three times, completely emptying the contents of his stomach.

Kyle fell backwards, his back colliding with the bathtub. He sat there for a minute or two, deciding if he was going to puke again or not. The nauseous feeling overwhelming his senses had died down significantly, and once Kyle concluded that he was okay, he made his way back to his room.

He picked up his phone off the carpet, sighing in relief when he realized Kenny was still on the line. 

“Kenny, meet me at Sizzler’s in twenty minutes. I need to tell you something.” 

Kyle rested his head on his arms, which were folded over the table. Kenny stared blankly ahead, not fixating on anything in particular. Two untouched glasses of water sat at the end of the table, the straws still wrapped and laying between them. 

A heavy silence lurked between the two boys, as they tried to wrap their heads around the situation. The restaurant was silent too, for the most part, excluding the early bird couples that chatted over breakfast, sitting scattered around the room. Kyle was able to drown out the sound of utensils clinking against ceramic, not that it mattered, his mind was swarming either way. Nothing could interrupt that. 

“...I…” Kenny began his train of thought, only to lose it just moments after he spoke. Kyle didn’t blame him, what the hell could either of them say to ease the tension? What words of comfort could be spoken that they wouldn’t hear from their parents?

Kyle hated being in the car with his Mom while she drove him to Sizzler’s. He hated the silence. He hated the way Sheila’s knuckles turned white while she gripped the steering wheel. It was humiliating, for him to say the least. He hated the kind of spot that Sheila was forced in, feeling obligated to comfort her grief-stricken son, yet having absolutely nothing to say at the same time. It wasn’t fair to her. It wasn’t fair to Kyle. 

It wasn’t fair at all. 

“...Tweek’s staying home from school.” Kenny finally said, grabbing his straw and pushing it out of its wrapper. He twirled the white paper around his fingers, something to fidget with. 

Kyle let out a deep sigh, flipping his head over so he could see the rest of the diner. “Probably a good idea.” 

Neither of them could imagine going to school. They couldn’t imagine all the whispers going around, all the rumors spreading like wildfire about Scott’s death. It would be like walking into an impromptu questionnaire, everyone desperate to know the details. 

Before either of them could speak again, a woman in a Sizzler’s uniform approached their table. Kyle hadn’t bothered to lift his head, even with the kind smile adorning the girl’s expression. 

“Good morning, can I get you guys anything to eat or drink?” She asked, glancing between the boys before settling on talking to Kenny. Kyle appreciated her for not pressuring him to respond. 

Kenny grabbed one of the paper menus their hostess had provided, which had been pushed to the side. He skimmed over the page with their daily specials before deciding. “...I’ll take a coffee, and a short stack. Scrambled eggs on the side.”

Kyle scrunched his nose up, distaste filling his mouth at the mere thought of food. The waitress scribbled down Kenny’s order, before turning to Kyle. “And for you, sir?”

Kyle sighed. He lifted his head slightly, just enough so he didn’t come off as rude. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

Kenny frowned. “You should really eat something, Ky.” 

“I’m not hungry.” Kyle shut him down. 

Kenny persisted. “Dude, seriously–” 

“I’ll just throw it up later.” Kyle divulged, immediately regretting his choice of words. He lowered his head back down, facing the window.

Kenny turned to the woman. “Uh, he’ll have the same thing.” 

The waitress nodded, writing the second order down on her notepad. She mentioned that she would be right back with their coffee, before taking the menus off the table. Kyle listened to her walk away, her shoes thudding softly against the thin carpet.

He wanted nothing more than to just sit in silence, content with Kenny’s presence for the rest of the day. But he knew that silence would only provoke his mind into overthinking, and he called Kenny here for a reason. Now was as good a time as any to come clean. When he did, maybe the other boy could help him make some sense of this. 

Kyle sat up straight, flattening his palms against the table. Kenny watched him with careful eyes. 

“...Someone called me, two days ago. It was Scott’s contact, and number, but… it wasn’t him.” Kyle spoke slowly, making sure Kenny understood his words. He glanced quickly into his eyes before continuing. “...The news said that— that Scott’s been dead for a little under three days. Which means he couldn’t have made that call.” 

Kenny’s lips parted slightly with shock. “You mean you— Kyle, you got a call from the person who killed Scott?!”

“Shh!!” Kyle cringed at the volume of Kenny’s voice. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. A Sizzler’s employee walked by their booth, grabbing empty plates off a table next to theirs. Kenny retracted his arms, laying his hands on his lap. Kyle pretended to look at something outside the restaurant, until the employee walked away. 

“I don’t know who it was, Kenny.” Kyle admitted, keeping his voice low. “...If we’re being reasonable, it was probably just some homeless guy who came across a lost phone.” 

Kenny brought his hands forward again. “Well what did they say to you?” 

“...Nothing.” Kyle shrugged one of his shoulders. “The only thing I heard was breathing. It lasted, like, twelve seconds. Then they hung up.”

“Okay, that’s.. weird, but, you’re right. It’s probably nothing.” Kenny agreed, folding his arms over his chest. “God knows how many people in this town would love to get their hands on a free phone.” 

Kyle shook his head, slowly, his mind deep in thought. “That still doesn’t make sense, though. I mean if they took Scott’s phone, why would they call someone instead of just resetting it? Or deleting everything?”

Kenny considered this for a moment. He bit the inside of his cheek, a habit that Kyle had noticed since the early years of their friendship. 

“Maybe they were trying to find the owner?” He suggested.

Kyle shook his head again. “No, they would have clarified that. They said nothing the entire time I was on the line.”

Kenny slumped back in defeat. “Then… maybe it really was the killer.” 

“But— I mean—“ Kyle tripped over his words, trying desperately to come up with any other explanation. He didn’t want Kenny to be right, especially not in this sense. “What’s the point of that? They killed someone, now they want to.. taunt his friends? Bask in their achievement?” 

“Well, it’s happened before.” Kenny said, shrugging one of his shoulders. Kyle cocked an eyebrow, urging him to elaborate. “You know, with, like… Scream, and, uh… When a Stranger Calls.” 

Kyle bristled, blinking harshly. “I know you are not seriously bringing up horror movies, Kenny!?”

“I’m just saying it’s not unheard of!” Kenny exclaimed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Crazy people exist, Ky.”

Suddenly, their waitress appeared at their table, carrying two standard sized coffee mugs. She placed them down in front of the boys, reminding them that their food would be out shortly. After she walked away, Kenny reached over to the window side of the table, grabbing a handful of creamers and sugars. 

Kyle drummed his fingers on the table, breathing out through his nose. He left his coffee alone. “I don’t know, do I– should I go to the cops? Will that even help anything if they can’t trace the number?”

Kenny shook his head immediately, ripping open one of the sugar packets and dumping it into his drink. “No. Definitely do not go to the cops. If you walk in there saying you got a call from Scott Malkinson’s killer, you’d be at the top of their suspect list faster than you could spell your full name.” 

Kyle slumped back against the booth cushions, fixing his gaze on the cars passing by the restaurant. The sun was halfway risen now, lighting up the sky with an orange hue. For the first time that week, there was no morning fog. Kyle would have taken that as a good sign if not for the news he’d just received.

“...This doesn’t even feel real.” He mumbled, pressing his hands against his forehead. “I feel fucking sick.” 

Kenny looked down. Kyle didn’t miss the way his eyes glossed over, reflecting the brilliant light from outside the restaurant. He took a sip of his coffee.

“I know… half of me thinks I’m still in bed having a nightmare.” He said softly. 

“I mean, who the hell would–” Kyle stopped himself before he could finish, hearing his voice become much louder than intended. He leaned over the table, closer to Kenny, lowering his tone to a whisper. “Who the hell would do something like this? To Scott of all people?!” 

“I don’t know, dude. This town is small, but it’s not that small. It could have been fucking anyone.” Kenny said, which didn’t help at all to calm Kyle’s nerves. If anything, Kenny’s words began a whole new spiral of daunting thoughts.

Kyle grabbed his coffee mug, warming his hands on the hot ceramic. Tragedies in South Park were extremely rare. Even so, the worst that Kyle ever heard happened was suicide back in the 80s’, where a thirty-two year old woman had jumped off Freemont bridge, following the divorce of her marriage. For the most part, South Park was a quiet town. Small enough where everybody knows everybody, but big enough that the police would be stumped after a brutal killing. In that sense, Kenny was right. There were too many suspects to consider. It could have been anyone. 

Kyle’s fingers squeezed the coffee mug, grounding himself when the image of Scott’s body flashed in the back of his mind. The news articles were considerate enough to leave out any photos of the crime scene, but with Kyle’s vivid imagination, he couldn’t stop himself from picturing it — Scott’s body dangling from the trees in Stark’s forest, his skin butchered with cuts. It was all so.. sinister. To do that kind of thing to a person , to Kyle’s friend. Kenny had one thing right when bringing up horror movies. Crazy people existed. The only question was who would be crazy enough to kill Scott Malkinson?

A crime like this couldn’t have been just out of the blue. It was personal, Kyle decided. Like whoever was behind it suddenly lost control. Scott didn’t have any enemies, not to Kyle’s knowledge anyway. It made no sense that a random individual would attack someone like that, especially someone like Scott. 

Then, something lit up in Kyle’s brain. It was a scary thought, one that sent shivers down his spine. And, despite it being warm inside the restaurant, he felt the hairs on his arms stick up. 

“What if—“ He began, second-guessing himself and debating whether or not he should continue speaking. Kyle looked up at Kenny, watching the blonde take another sip of his drink. “…What if it’s someone we know?” 

Kenny’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He set his mug down and swallowed. “Are you— Kyle, what?!” 

“It’s not completely crazy, right?! I mean why else would anyone have a motive for murder?! Scott goes out drinking almost every fucking day! He could’ve— I don’t know… he could have slept with someone’s girlfriend or something!” Kyle theorized.

Kenny let out a defeated sigh, his expression holding hints of melancholy. He pushed his coffee mug aside, reaching across the table for Kyle’s arms. He rested his hands on top of Kyle’s own. 

“Kyle, I am saying this with the utmost amount of sincerity, and as your best friend.” He began, glancing between both of Kyle’s green eyes. “...I know you think that this is something you can figure out, something you can turn into a puzzle, because that’s just your first instinct — to ask questions.” 

Kyle stayed silent, listening intently.

“Remember in tenth grade, when our class hamster was found dead in its cage, and you spent a week interviewing everyone in our class trying to figure out who killed it, only for our teacher to admit that he just forgot to feed it?” Kenny asked. 

Kyle’s shoulders slumped at the memory. Wherever Kenny was going with this lecture, he knew that he was going to end up being right. 

“...I know you want answers. We all do. But I’m telling you now, Kyle, to stop while you’re ahead. Okay, if— if you spiral out like that again there will be no one left to hold our group together. Not me, not Butters, not Tweek. And especially not Cartman.” Kenny said, his voice leveling with a serious tone. “We can’t afford to be absent, dude. Scott would want us to be there for each other.”

Kyle was at a loss for words. He hadn’t noticed it before, how Kenny brought up Scott’s name as if he were sitting right beside them. It had felt so normal to talk about him, to include his name in conversations, but now Scott’s name sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Kyle hated that, he hated that his brain reacted negatively to something he considered normal just three days ago. He hated that, of all people, someone chose to brutally murder one of his best friends. 

But, as usual, Kenny was right. He couldn’t afford to lose his head, not when Kyle’s friends needed him most. For now, he would have to silence his internal investigator, and focus on just being present.

“Thanks, Ken.” Kyle said, to which the blonde grinned a sincere smile. 

Their waitress appeared again, this time holding two steaming plates of pancakes and eggs. Kyle watched his own plate be set down in front of him, the queasiness in his stomach settling down immediately. 

Stan sat in his parked jeep, staring blankly at his phone screen. It had been exactly twenty minutes past the first bell, he was well past late to his class. But if he were being honest, Stan didn't know what the hell he was even doing there. 

Everyone and their mothers had watched the news by now, shocked by the revelation that there had been a tragedy in South Park, the first one in over forty years. Not only that, but a tragedy that involved one of Stan’s closest friends, and potentially even himself. He knew full well that if he walked through those doors now, his day would be nothing but pity-hugs and self-perseverance. 

Stan thought that he understood pity more than anyone else in the world. He experienced it every time he came to school with a new bruise, having to blame it on some trivial fight with a random student, pulling names out of his ass to avoid confrontation. 

He had slipped up, one time, accidentally bringing up his father’s atrocious attitude when asked about the bruise on his cheek. Stan played it off like he was joking, making up an entire fabrication of falling down the stairs, hitting his face on the bannister and earning himself a nasty scar. His friends laughed it off, calling him clumsy and reckless, remaining oblivious to the truth. 

He hadn’t seen any of them yet. Stan had received multiple texts from his friends; Tolkien wondering if he’d seen the news, Craig asking if he’d be coming to school, Jimmy being insensitive and explaining every gory detail about Scott’s body. Stan knew that avoiding it was out of the question, it was just a matter of figuring out how the hell he’s going to keep himself together when faced with reality. 

But he guessed that if everyone had to do it, he had to do it too. It was only fair. And, it would help to show people that Stan was capable of grieving too. Even if he had a shitty way of showing it. 

The longer he stared at his phone, the drier his eyes became. Scott Malkinson’s contact stood out like a crack in his screen, as it sat innocently at the top of Stan’s recent call list. His thumb hovered over it, while Stan debated whether or not he should swipe. He lifted his eyes for a moment, watching from a distance as a teacher exited through the doors of the high school. It wasn’t a teacher that Stan recognized, although he was sure he’d seen him around. The man carried a messenger bag on his back while he headed towards his car, Stan’s rash decision of playing hooky going unnoticed.

Scott Malkinson was dead. He was dead, and when Stan finally realized that, his thumb reacted faster than his brain. The contact immediately disappeared from his list, leaving no evidence behind that he had ever called him in the first place. 

It wasn’t rocket science to match the time of the phone call to the time of Scott’s death. Stan knew full well that there was no possible way Scott himself could have dialed him. He didn’t want to think about who it really was. He didn’t want to encourage the eerie feeling that churned in his stomach. 

Stan wanted to just forget about it. He didn’t want to be the only one that carried this kind of weight. He wanted to grieve normally, like everyone else around him. He wanted to remember the good times he had with Scott; all the nights their group would go out for dinner after winning a game, all the summer parties and trips to Tolkien’s lakehouse. 

He didn’t want to think about the possibility that Scott's killer could have been the one who called him. 

When Stan walked into his second period class, all he heard was chatter. Almost every student in the room was out of their seat, gossiping with their friends. Normally, Stan wouldn’t think twice about this. But today, the air was heavy. He could smell the tension all the way from the hallway. Although, maybe that was just him. 

He moved almost robotically, towards his seat in the back of the classroom. His desk was the only one not occupied, the surface having yet to be littered with eraser marks and ink. The sun shined through the blinds on the windows, casting glowing beams across the room. It was almost enough to serve as its own light. 

Stan was halfway to his desk before he was forced to stop, by the feeling of someone wrapping their arms around his middle. He looked down to see a heap of silky black hair, tied up into a messy bun. A smile ghosted across his lips, but Wendy didn’t have to know that.

“I saw the news.” She mentioned, her voice slightly muffled from being turned away. “I’m so sorry, Stan.” 

Stan didn’t reciprocate the hug. It wasn’t because he felt like he didn’t have to, but because he just didn’t have the energy. His arms were tired, from excessively lifting weights last night while his father watched. His head was tired, from intruding thoughts and an endless migraine. 

“Me too.” Stan replied, while Wendy finally pulled away. His mind suddenly flared up again, as he recalled Scott’s contact flashing on his phone screen. He shook his head, airing out his thoughts. “Uh.. have you.. talked to the others yet?”

Wendy nodded, tightly. “They’re upset. Mortified. We all are… Scott didn’t deserve to go like that.” She said, not withholding any ounce of the truth. 

“Nobody does.” Stan muttered, forcing the image of the crime scene out of his mind. He maneuvered past Wendy, dropping his books on top of his desk. She followed behind, sitting herself at the desk in front of his, once the student who previously occupied it got up. 

“Are you… okay?” She asked, her voice gentle. Stan would have killed to hear that from his parents, any sort of sign that they cared about his friend’s passing. But they didn’t even wake him up. 

He clenched his fists, as his knee unconsciously began to bounce under the desk. 

“I’ll be fine.” He said, to the best of his lying ability. His head rang with every passing second that he didn’t bring up the phone call, but he knew he never could. His friends would hate him, for not coming clean about it the second it happened. He couldn’t afford that right now.

Wendy didn't buy his attempt. She cocked her head to the side, lips curving into a frown. “Stan—“

“I don’t need your pity, Wendy.” He snapped, and Wendy’s expression dropped entirely. Stan tightened his jaw. “Scott’s death is sad, but I’m not gonna to let myself drown in other people’s sympathy. It’s bad enough the looks I got coming in here.” 

Wendy knitted her eyebrows to convey an accusatory glare. She parted her lips, something livid lighting up in her eyes. 

She scoffed. “Wow. In a situation that for once, doesn’t revolve around Stan Marsh, somehow you still manage to make it all about you.” 

Stan rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. He had a bad habit of digging a deeper hole than the one he already threw himself in. And in his family, habits were hard to break. 

In a flash, Wendy stood up from the desk and walked away, planting herself in her assigned seat. Just in time, too, as the late bell finally rang throughout the hallways of the school. The room was gradually silenced, as the students rushed to their own seats. Stan’s English teacher walked through the door, setting down her lesson plans on her desk. 

Stan blanked out for the rest of class.

Chapter Text

“...I don’t even feel like eating, man.” Clyde murmured under his breath, pushing away his lunch tray that was stocked with junk. His cheeseburger slumped over, as if it were just as sad as the rest of them. “It’s like I have this giant hole in my stomach, but I’m not hungry.”

“That’s called grief, Clyde.” Tolkien provided, without moving his hand from his chin. “People usually get upset after their friends die.”

Clyde inhaled, sharply. His voice wavered with sorrow. “But it– it won’t go away, Tolkien. I hate it.” 

Bebe pulled Clyde closer, pushing his head onto her shoulder as he sighed. The lunch table was silent, the heavy weight of mourning almost too much to bear. No one knew what to say, or how to deal with Scott’s death. Something so horrible, especially. It left a mark of devastation that none of them knew how to even begin to understand. 

Stan’s gut twisted with something akin to guilt. He couldn’t help but feel like some of this was his fault. Though that was impossible, since he wasn’t the one who killed Scott, all he was doing was keeping a secret. A harmless, unsubstantial, little secret.

At least, that’s what Stan keeps telling himself. But it didn’t relieve any of his thoughts.

“...What the hell am I gonna do, guys?” Tolkien scrubbed his hand over his head, trying to ease the stress that built up inside him. “I have like fifteen full bottles of alcohol that I need gone by Sunday. If my parents come home from Boston–”

“Jesus, Tolkien, can you show some fucking compassion?” Bebe cut in, still holding Clyde’s head on her shoulder. “Maybe instead of worrying about your stupid fucking party, you could pretend to care a little?!”

“Bebe, come on. Lay off.” Craig advised, having to lean forward for a clear view of the table. “We’re all upset, but taking it out on each other won’t make it any better.” 

“Craig’s right.” Stan agreed, earning himself a side-eye from Wendy. Apparently she hadn’t said anything to their group, despite their interaction in English class. 

“You’re one to talk, Stan! Did you happen to forget that Craig was the last person to see Scott before he disappeared?!” Bebe pointed at the stoic boy from down the table. 

“I’m sorry, are you trying to insinuate that I killed him?” Craig fired back, eyes narrowing in exasperation. 

Bebe jolted up from her chair, having to let go of Clyde so as to not drag him with her. “Wouldn’t put it past you, you are a sociopath, after all.” 

Craig stood up as well, his chair skidding against the tiles and releasing a horrible screech. “Who the fuck do you think you are accusing me of murder, Bebe?!” 

“Guys, guys!” Kevin grabbed a hold of Craig’s arm, pulling him back before he tackled Bebe across the cafeteria. Reluctantly, Craig dropped down into his seat, arms folded tightly. 

Clyde threw his arm around Bebe’s shoulder, silently persuading her to stand down. She listened, her soft spot for the brunette not going unappreciated. She gripped Clyde’s hand with her own, looking as if she was about to kill the next person she sees.

“This isn’t how we’re supposed to act. Do you guys really think Scott would want us to turn on each other like this?” Kevin mediated until both parties were settled. Another wave of silence washed over their group. Craig pulled his chair forward again, closer to the table. 

Stan never wanted this, disharmony between him and his friends. He was smart enough to know that everyone had their own way of dealing with grief, yet he couldn’t help but feel like there would be no coming back from this. There would be no more normalcy, at least not for a while. Not until Scott’s killer is arrested.

Though, with South Park’s police force, that could take a while. It could take months until the cops even identify the killer. They would be lucky if this case was solved before the new year. And once that thought crossed his mind, Stan frowned. Scott would never even see the new year, let alone Christmas. 

It was sickening to him, how quickly someone’s life could be ripped away by an unforeseen act. It was even more sickening when Stan reminded himself that a person was behind this. Another human being, capable of such a heinous crime. It made him wonder, just what exactly Scott did to deserve that. 

Nothing, he told himself. It had to be nothing, because unlike Stan, Scott was a good person. Scott had two loving parents, and had his whole life ahead of him. Scott was unproblematic, and kind, and wasn’t afraid to express himself for who he truly was. He didn’t care what his father thought of him, he didn’t care what cliques his friends belonged to, he was real. He was someone that Stan often counted on. In fact, Scott was the only one who knew the truth about Randy.

He was the only one that Stan trusted enough – after getting shitfaced at Wendy’s end of the summer party – to admit to, about everything his father had done to him. All the long hours over the nights he could have spent sleeping, when Randy forced him to train before practice the next day. All the times he didn’t meet Randy’s requirements, and left for school with a bruise on his face. 

Scott told him to stay strong. He told Stan to remind himself every day that no matter what happened, that he was still his own person. He told Stan that Randy wasn’t able to be saved, but that he could still save himself – from the same fate. He told Stan that he had the power to change the outcome of his life, that it was just a matter of when. When would he grow a pair and finally stand his ground?

Stan didn’t think he’d ever gotten so deep within a conversation before that night. Scott put so many things into perspective for him, but it still hadn’t been enough. Stan woke up the next morning to a slap from his mother. He couldn’t remember exactly what she was screaming about, only the pain that followed the cold hand on his cheek. All the confidence he had built immediately disappeared. He was right back to square one. 

“What if…” Clyde’s estranged voice had silenced Stan’s inner ramblings. All heads at the table turned to him. “What if we make it into a memorial? What if we dedicate Tolkien’s party to remembering Scott?”

Clyde’s words resonated with the group, each of them expressing different opinions with their eyes. Tolkien visibly perked up.

“...He would like that, I think.” Bebe chimed in, much to the table’s surprise. Except Stan’s, he saw that coming from a mile away. Bebe agreed with Clyde on anything and everything, it was almost pathetic how oblivious the boy was to her efforts of affection. 

“Do you think people will still go?” Tolkien asked, nervously rubbing his arm. 

Kevin leaned forward, voicing his thoughts. “As long as we keep it seniors-only. Scott wouldn’t want no tiny ass freshmen puking in his honor.” 

A few mournful chuckles circulated around the table. Even Craig had smiled, albeit lightly. Stan wasn’t quite sure if he was relieved or not that the party was still on. But maybe it was just what he needed to forget for a little while. 

“Cartman, you cannot be serious.” Kyle snapped out, although he really hadn’t expected less from the heartless boy. 

Sheila had insisted that Kyle stay home from school, which he definitely did not put up a fight to. He had the house to himself, and although he enjoyed the space, it had become incredibly desolate with no one to talk to. Kenny was the one who suggested that no one should be alone at a time like this, so Kyle opted to host a small get-together. (Get-together being an extremely loose term for the company of four people.) 

Kenny had walked to Kyle’s house, since he lived just down the block, while Cartman stopped to pick Butters up before driving over. It wasn’t long before the boys were scattered around Kyle’s living room, each holding a controller while they occupied the TV with Mario Kart multiplayer. Butters sat next to Cartman on the floor, while Kenny sprawled out across the couch, his head laying flush against a pillow on top of Kyle’s lap. The redhead didn’t seem to mind, as long as Cartman didn’t open his fat mouth about it. 

“I am more serious than I quite possibly ever have been, Kahl.” Cartman replied, turning his entire body along with his controller, in order to avoid the guard rail on the map they were currently racing on. 

“Uh.. no offense Eric, but do ya really think a party is the best idea right now?” Butters asked, without moving his eyes from the screen. Kyle jerked his controller up to hit the jump boost before he advanced to the second lap of the round. 

“Yes, Butters. Because I know for a fact that we all need to unwind, right guys?” Cartman said, briefly glancing at Kyle from an upside down angle. “With all this upsetting news it will be so hard to get back on track.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. Kenny mirrored him, questioning Cartman’s audacity. “We don’t need to unwind, we need to grieve , man. I’m glad you think of this as an opportunity to get high for free.”

Kyle wasn’t surprised that Cartman wasn’t upset over Scott’s death. In fact, he was pretty sure the fucker was born a sociopath. With the way he treated everyone around him down to his own mother, it was almost shockingly predictable to watch him grow up. Like when Cartman threatened to burn his mother’s shoes if she didn’t buy him a car for his sixteenth birthday. Or when he threw a tantrum in the middle of Target when she refused to feed into his supply of cheesy-poofs.

Despite this, Kyle was kind of glad to feel the tension gradually lift the longer his friends were around. The majority of their group was still in shock, but Kenny was right, it helped to not isolate himself. Kyle was glad he listened to Kenny's advice. He didn’t know where he would be if it weren’t for him. 

“Hey! Who said I’m not grieving?! It’s literally a memorial party, everyone there will be just as sad as we are!” Cartman defended, nearly fumbling on a jump when he took his eyes off the screen. 

“If you say it’s for Scott, I’m gonna puke.” Kyle said, his stomach already feeling queasy. 

Cartman hit Kenny with a red turtle shell, causing them both to switch places on the leaderboard. Kenny rolled three dash mushrooms from the item box, quickly catching back up to him. 

“I don’t need to say who it’s for, Kahl, I know you’ll make the right decision to go!” The boy was insufferably persistent. 

Kyle exhaled, pushing the air out through his upper lip. He knew Cartman wouldn’t give up until he agreed, because that was just the kind of person he was. 

Kenny tried his best to sway Kyle’s opinion. “Dude, seriously, you don’t have to–”

“Butt out, Kinny!” Cartman cut him off before he could finish. “I am trying to save us from the symptoms of FOMO!” 

“What’s FOMO?” Butters asked, furrowing his eyebrows. He crossed over into the final lap of the race, with Kyle right behind him. 

“Fear of missing out,” Kyle promptly answered. “Which you used without an adverb, Cartman.” 

“Oh my goooddd.” Cartman drawled, throwing his head back in annoyance. “Are you a Jew or are you the grammar police? Pick a struggle, Kahl!” 

Butters giggled, probably not quite understanding the insult to its full extent. Kyle didn’t mind, he knew Butters wasn’t a malicious person on purpose – not like Cartman was.

“Shut up, fatass! At least I didn’t have to get an SUV for my birthday because I didn’t fit in a fucking sedan!” He fired back, this time earning a laugh out of Kenny. 

Instead of yelling something back, Cartman opted to run Kyle off the road of the map, sending him straight down into the depths of Wario’s Gold Mine. He groaned, loudly, waiting for Lakitu to reset his place on the track.

“What would we even tell our parents, Cartman? That we’re going to a study group?” Kenny half-joked, knowing that that excuse would most certainly not fly for any of them.

“Ha! Please, they’d have an easier time believing we were fleeing the fucking country.” Kyle agreed, Kenny giggling below him. 

“You let me take care of that, guys. All you have to do is be ready when I pick your asses up. I don’t want to be sitting in your driveways for three hours while you have fashion shows in your bedrooms!” Cartman said, before flipping around to face Kenny. “Except you Kinny, I know you’re too poor to have a driveway. You can take all the time you need.” 

Kyle lifted up his arms so that Kenny could sit up, reaching out and attempting to strangle Cartman. The boy let out a screech before scrambling away. 

Butters crossed the finish line, coming in second place. “Sorry, fellas, I wish I could go. If my Dad found out I went to a party, I’d be grounded till’ summer!” 

“That’s okay Butters, it’s probably better if you sit this one out anyway. Tolkien’s parties always get busted by the cops, I’m surprised he still has the balls to throw them.” Kyle replied, managing to pass Cartman just in time before he finished the race, beating him by only a few points. 

“God damn it!” Cartman yelled, expressing his distaste for losing to Kyle. Kenny crossed the finish line in second to last place. Before the screen could fade into the next race, Kyle paused it.

“Drink break!” He called, jumping up from the couch. His friends all yelled back with their requests, to which Kyle noted. The sounds of Cartman and Butters talking were soon muffled behind the wall, as Kyle entered the kitchen.

Per his household’s light rule, the dining room and kitchen were completely dark, save for the fluorescent light above the stove. The sun still shone through the windows, serving as an extra light for convenience. It was already close to the time when his parents were supposed to be getting back from work, but Ike wouldn’t be home for a while, since he had boy scouts that night. 

Kyle opened the refrigerator and grabbed four cans of coca-cola. He tucked them under his arm, shutting the door behind him. His feet thudded against the floor as he walked back into the living room, delivering the sodas to his friends. He took his seat back on the couch, taking a moment to peel back the tab on his can. 

His anxiety rolled inside of him, along with it coming the guilt. He knew he should still be sad over Scott, he knew he shouldn’t be practically celebrating with Mario Kart. It felt wrong, to be having fun instead of thinking about all that went awry today. But, at the same time, Kyle knew that Scott wouldn’t want him to be so hung up over his death. 

The truth was, Scott was probably the best person Kyle ever knew. He was the perfect mix of each of them – compassionate like Kenny, crazy like Cartman, even a little shy like Butters. Scott was aware like Tweek, and skeptical like himself. He loved having him be a part of his life. Which was why it felt so wrong to be anything other than sad. 

On top of that, was the fact that Kyle could have very well gotten a call from Scott’s killer. Kenny had advised him not to tell anyone else, as it could incriminate him, and Kyle listened. He trusted Kenny, he knew his secret would be safe with him, but that didn’t stop his nerves from flaring up. He had something that could potentially help the cops catch this killer, the person that took Kyle’s friend away.

Why was he so conflicted about that?

“Hey, asshole!” Cartman’s grating voice pulled Kyle out of his own head. He took a sip of his soda, his tongue tingling under the fizzy sensation. 

“What, fatass?” He answered, immediately shutting off all his inner worries. He was afraid they would show on his face, which Kenny was scarily good at spotting.

“I said how about a 1v1? If I win, you go to Tolkien’s party tonight!” Cartman challenged. 

Kyle rolled his eyes. He wasn’t worried anymore about running into people he hated, he supposed that if it was a memorial party for Scott, that it would be a little easier to stay without being kicked out by the football players. Not that that was even a good thing – Kyle had never even been to a party before. He wasn’t sure how it would play out.

“Come on, Kahl! We all know that Scott would have wanted us to go!” Cartman continued to badger him about it. That much was true, Kyle admitted. If Scott was still with them, there was a very high chance that he would have also gone to Tolkien’s party. 

But as loud as his conscience screamed at him the opposite, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would be a little easier dealing with everything once Kyle got a taste of Scott’s everyday life. Maybe, just maybe, he could pretend that Scott would be there, waiting for Kyle and his friends to show up. 

“You’re on, porky.” He grabbed the controller again, completely resetting the game to a two player version. And if Kyle lost the race on purpose, no one said anything about it.

Night time fell quickly over South Park, covering the town in a blanket of darkness. The sky was clear, for the most part, the moon bright and full while shining down a subtle white light. Stan’s hands were occupied with his phone, typing back a reply to Tolkien when he asked what time Stan would be showing up. 

He lifted his eyes forward, peering through his windshield while his father stood swaying outside of Skeeter’s bar, finishing up a conversation with his friends. He had been sitting in the parking lot for twenty minutes, upon arriving by Randy’s request. The last thing either of them wanted was for the man to be on the road while hammered, a danger to society much like he was in the Marsh household. Not that Stan wouldn’t be upset about his father potentially dying, he just didn’t want it to be at the expense of another person’s life. 

The bright red lights of the Skeeter’s logo burned into his eyes. He couldn’t look ahead of him for long without them hurting. He just hoped his father would hurry up, he didn’t want to miss anything at Tolkien’s house. 

It was already nine-thirty, the party itself started in a half hour, but Tolkien’s pregame with close friends started at eight. Half of that time Stan could have spent driving, was used up when he was forced to rush across town to pick up his drunken father. As usual, his mother was MIA, not responding to any of Stan’s texts when he told her where he was going.

Speaking of, Stan still had to come up with a decent lie on where he would be for the next day or two. Tolkien’s house was the ideal place to wake up with a hangover, with a fully stocked pantry and enough ice water to last a lifetime, so Stan had already planned on making himself at home. Not that Tolkien minded, the boy usually encouraged it – saying something about a bro’s weekend each time their friend group got together. Stan huffed at the stupid name. 

He glanced down at his phone when the screen lit up, a snapchat from Clyde resting at the top of his notifications. He slid his thumb across the screen, opening the app and immediately being greeted with a group photo of Clyde, Tolkien, Jimmy, and Kevin. Each of them held a drink in their hands, Clyde waving around an unopened bottle of Fireball, while the rest of them clutched a red solo cup. They were sitting in Tolkien’s basement lounge, an area that was usually off limits when parties went on. All of Tolkien’s father’s prized possessions sat on shelves that were nailed to the walls, including a glass display case filled with helmets and other sports equipment. Stan spotted a football which was signed with Tom Brady’s writing, his personal favorite from the man’s collection. 

He nearly dropped his phone when his passenger door suddenly opened, the overhead light turning on while Randy all but tumbled into the car. His father let out a groan before he collapsed into the seat, shutting the door behind him and not bothering with his seatbelt. Stan turned over the engine and prepared to back out of the spot. 

“How long’ve you been sittin’ here?” Randy asked, his tired tone mimicking a statement rather than a question. Stan could smell the liquor on his breath, even from where he was sitting.

He shrugged, checking his mirrors before moving the car. “Ten or so minutes.” He lied, knowing that if he were truthful, Randy would think he was being dramatic. The man was too intoxicated to tell time anyway, not that he could even catch his son’s lie. 

Van Halen’s Jump played faintly over the stereo, filling the atmosphere with acceptable background noise as Stan left the parking lot. His headlights gleamed across the road ahead of him, flat and surrounded by forest on both sides. 

“Thomas wuz sayin’ something bout uh…. switchin’ up the routine for the rally next week. You know what I told em?” Randy turned to Stan, who kept his eyes on the road and tried not to facepalm at his father’s southern accent, which for some reason only came out when he was shitfaced. 

“What?” Stan humored, glancing in his rear view mirror as a pair of headlights turned on the road behind him.

“I told em to go fuck emself!” Randy exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hand. “If that asshole wants to run the show then he shoulda’ been a coach. Fuckin’ prick.” 

Stan gripped the steering wheel with both hands, tightly. He pressed the gas pedal a little further into the floor, wanting this car ride to be over as soon as possible. 

“And then–” Randy began again, and Stan wanted nothing more than to drown out his slurring voice, but if he turned the radio up it would only get turned back down. “Steven had some damn bullshit to say, when his boy ain’t even on the team! You ever hearda… ah, what’s his name…Somethin’ with a B…”

Randy paused for a long while, mulling over his thoughts to try and continue his story. Stan didn’t even bother to think of who he was referring to, half of the time when his father retells his experiences, he pulls several names out of his ass like he was supposed to know who they were. He rarely ever did.

“Ah, forget it. Don’t matter anyway.” With a wave of his hand, the topic was forgotten. 

It was almost impossible for Stan to forget about the pep rally next Thursday, followed by South Park High’s big kickoff game on Friday. Randy basically made it his own personality trait to remind him every day, telling Stan that he would have to get in extra practice in order for him to look his best. It pissed Stan off, more so because his father was pressuring him over the actual captain of the team – Tolkien. Not that he would ever wish Randy’s wrath on anyone, especially his best friend, but he knew that Tolkien’s parents didn’t overwork him quite like Randy did Stan. He had a right to be jealous. 

Needless to say, Stan’s usual excitement for pep rallies had been vastly watered down, he no longer had any interest participating by his own free will, but if he skipped out he knew it would mean his own ass. He didn’t really feel like getting another bruise that week, when the one on his chin still had yet to fade. It stuck out against his complexion like an eyesore, and he no longer had any of Shelley’s makeup to cover it up, not since she left for college three years ago.

He envied his older sister more than anyone, Stan thinks. He would kill for the opportunity to move cross-nation to pursue his own life, and cut contact with his parents. The two of them still kept in touch for the most part, but with their drastic differences in personalities, plus Shelley’s busy schedule, it was hard. Stan still got holiday texts every few months, but that was about it. He missed her, even when they hadn’t quite been the healthiest with each other when growing up. Shelley was still someone Stan could relate to when their parents were being shitty, but now that she was gone he only had himself. If only she could see how bad it really got when she left.

The rest of the drive home was fairly silent, much to Stan’s preferences. Randy dozed off halfway home, and the radio played over the soft sounds of his snoring. Stan tapped his fingers against his leg to the beat of Shoot to Thrill, hoping Randy would wake up again before they parked. He hated having to do so after he’d been drinking. It was never a pretty thing, Randy either thinks Stan is trying to kill him or trying to sell him car insurance. There had been instances where the man would wake up swinging, which never ended well.

When Stan pulled into his driveway, he made the rash decision of driving the right side of his jeep over the curb, which jolted the car enough that his father awoke with a startle. He parked next to Randy’s own vehicle, a blue honda – which had actually been Stan’s first car when he got his license, but Randy had stolen the keys and claimed it as his own for a punishment. He couldn’t quite remember what he did to deserve it, but it hadn’t mattered after Stan saved up for his current vehicle. He liked his jeep much better anyway.

“You comin’ inside?” Randy asked after noticing that Stan hadn’t turned the car off, or opened his door. He panicked, suddenly put on the spot as he tried coming up with an excuse on a whim. 

“Uh– I’m going to the gym.” The lie rolled off his tongue, albeit quickly, but Randy was too drunk to read between the lines. His father shrugged before shutting the door closed, stumbling up to the front porch. 

Stan waited until his father was inside the house before pulling back out of the driveway. Before long, it was once again just him and the road. Stan cranked his radio up a little higher, relishing in the alone time he rarely got anymore. He drummed his hands along the top of his steering wheel, a euphoric feeling passing through his body. If it weren’t for the cold weather, he would have rolled the windows down, the wind blowing through his hair was an otherworldly sentiment. He cherished summer nights for that reason specifically. 

Evergreen trees loomed over his car as he sped past them, barely paying any mind to the rising numbers of his speedometer. He let this feeling consume him whole, eating him up inside but in the best way possible. The months following the day he’d been granted his driver’s license consisted of nothing but late night drives, times where Stan’s mind was quiet, where it was just him, his music, and the road ahead. He forgot how alive it made him feel, how elevated he became as his worries washed away like the tides of the ocean. He couldn’t remember the last time he did this completely sober. He missed it.

He allowed himself to forget about Scott, the phone call that guilted him into silence, and Wendy, their intimate moment shattered when he lashed at her that morning. A blissful fuzz infused itself in his brain, and Stan wished he could hold onto this feeling forever. 

Of course, nothing he ever wished for came true. If it did, he wouldn’t still be in this shithole of a town. Stan’s music was silenced when his phone began ringing, the call interfering with his Spotify playlist. Swearing under his breath and having to take his eyes off the road, he reached into the small compartment underneath his radio, pulling out his phone which continued buzzing. 

“What the– fuck?!” Stan’s frightened voice bellowed out, louder than his music had been just seconds before. His focus briefly slipped from the road, having to grab the wheel and swerve his car back in the right lane before glancing back to his phone. Any ounce of elation quickly drained from his body, now replaced with ice cold unadulterated fear. 

Scott Malkinson’s name and contact photo flashed over his screen. 

His ringtone, a default sound that which his phone settings had provided, never sounded more horrifying. It played on repeat two times while Stan blankly stared, mouth agape in unalloyed shock. He found himself pressing into the brake pedal before he could register his own movements. He pulled off to the side of the road, empty and dark along the treeline of a forest. 

Without the whirring of tires along pavement, the ringtone was even more disturbing, as it reverberated off the walls of the car’s interior. Stan nearly missed the call entirely, he quickly swiped across the screen before the picture could disappear. 

His voice caught in his throat, words failing him entirely when he placed the phone to his ear. He swallowed, hard, before asking, “...Hello?”

Apprehension hit him like a freight train, fear churning in his stomach when the other line was hauntingly silent. The last time this happened, Stan was able to pick up the sound of breathing. But this time, there was nothing. Just white noise followed by the crickets outside his car.

“Who is this?” Stan demanded, masking his terror with an impatient tone. His surroundings did not help calm him down, as he stared into the black void with shadows that warped into monstrous shapes. “Why the fuck do you have Scott Malkinson’s phone?!”

He breathed, shakily, as his head spun trying to make sense of the situation. Maybe it was a glitch? Maybe Scott’s phone had been thrown into Stark’s Pond, and water damage was the cause of these– these ghost calls?

“...Your actions have consequences, Stan Marsh.” A strange, deep resounding voice spoke back to him, unexpectedly.

Stan froze, his heart dropping down to his feet. A cold chill ran up his spine, the sensation feeling something akin to spiders crawling over his flesh. The sentence echoed in his mind as if it were stuck on repeat. 

“W– What?” Stan tumbled over the word like it was his first time speaking. 

Suddenly, three beeps sounded in his ear, indicating the call was dropped. He pulled the device back, studying the screen. Stan quickly opened his call list, having to prove to himself that what just happened was not his imagination. 

Sure enough, Scott’s name sat at the top of the screen, reflecting in Stan’s eyes. 

Kyle shut the car door with a little more force than intended. Now that he was standing in Tolkien Black’s driveway, a path that wound a quarter mile from the main road, his nerves caught up to him. He was starting to regret losing the Mario Kart race on purpose. Why would he choose to willingly attend a high school party, when he could be at home right now, curling up on the couch and watching Big Bang Theory?

Kenny’s cold hand landed on his shoulder, a gesture which Kyle jumped to. He turned to the blonde, who donned a worried expression on his face. Kenny was concerned, for him or for himself he wasn’t sure. Partying after such a tragedy shouldn’t even be considered as a good idea. Kyle felt guilty all over again. He didn’t want to be here.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad.” Kenny offered, shrugging one of his shoulders while he looked up at the house. 

The ‘house’ — a three story mansion that stretched beautifully across an acre of neatly trimmed grass. Stone crafted turrets protruded from both sides of the exterior, accentuating the building like a modern work of art. Kyle had never seen Tolkien’s house, let alone compared himself to the size of it. He felt like an ant standing before the empire state building, he couldn’t believe his eyes. 

“I’m totally gonna get lost in there, aren’t I?” Kyle muttered to himself, Kenny still managing to catch it. The boy snickered while he draped an arm over Kyle’s shoulders, beginning the walk to the front porch. 

“If you’re lucky!” He replied cheerily, obviously interpreting Kyle’s words with an entirely different meaning. 

“Ey! Wait up you assholes!” Cartman yelled from the car, when Kyle and Kenny were already halfway up the drive. 

Kyle was surprised they even managed to get a parking spot in the driveway, considering just how many other cars had parked closer to the house. Kyle recognized a few that he’d see at school while heading to class, specifically a purple buggy with eyelashes on the headlights. He had no idea who it belonged to, likely one of the popular girls, but he’d always see it parked in the same spot every day. 

There were people lounging around on the front lawn, drinking from red solo cups and laughing loudly. Kyle had to weave through a group of stoners on the porch stairs, rolling his eyes when Cartman stopped to ask for a hit. Kenny laughed when they rejected him. 

The front door was wide open, displaying another large group of people loitering in the foyer of the house. Kyle stepped inside, Kenny following close behind. Immediately, his nostrils were assaulted with the harsh stench of weed, alcohol not far behind. Party music thumped in his chest and ears, he could no longer hear himself think. Despite this, Kyle looked around, studying the interior of the house. 

A grand staircase sat in the middle of the room, curving up to the second floor with intricate wooden railings. Vaulted ceilings allowed Kyle to feel as though he were standing in a lived-in museum, every piece of artwork hung on the wall estimated at a rich price. There were people everywhere, littering the elegant environment with sweat and desire. Kyle felt Kenny gently push him forward, further down the hallway and deeper into the mansion.

They followed the smell of alcohol, and the trail of discarded solo cups on the floor until they reached the kitchen, which was predictably the most popular room in the house. It was easily bigger than the entire first floor of Kyle’s house, stretching and conjoining into a dining room with a grand mahogany table. The ceilings weren’t as high, only a few feet above Kyle’s head — the normal height for a house in South Park. 

There was a large banner hung from a row of dark brown cabinets, reading ‘Remember Scott’ in bold black letters. It was messy, and totally last minute, Kyle called it. He was surprised that the party itself was still on, he thought that people needed time to grieve after the news. Kyle felt like a hypocrite now, after spending time with his friends on Mario Kart and acting like everything was normal. It wasn’t normal. He was standing in the middle of Tolkien Black’s kitchen, at a memorial party for his murdered best friend. 

He let Kenny guide him around the kitchen island, where a horde of bottles lay out for the taking. Most of them were alcoholic, save for the collection of 2-liter sodas just off to the side. Stacks of cups and plates were next to them, the rest of the countertop space filled with snack platters and junk food. 

Kenny grabbed two cups, leaning close to Kyle. He raised his voice so as to not be drowned out by the music. “What do you want!”

Kyle studied the array of alcohol brands before him, only two ever sparking recognition in his mind. The rest of them he had never even seen before. He looked back at Kenny.

“I have no fucking idea!” 

The blonde laughed, the lighthearted sound going completely unheard under the booming sounds of music. He grabbed a 2-liter of Sprite, handing the bottle off to Kyle for him to hold. Kenny then picked out a bottle of Absolut, half of its clear contents already gone. Kyle watched as he poured a few ounces into a cup, before taking the Sprite back out of his hands. Kenny filled the cup to the top, the soda spilling over the edge and dripping onto his hand. 

“Here!” He passed the cup to Kyle, who took it with uncertainty. Although, if he trusted anyone to make his drinks, it would be Kenny. “Vodka soda, a classic for beginners!”

Kyle rolled his eyes, taking a cautious sip of the concoction to get a feel for the taste. The liquid burned the back of his throat only slightly before the fizz dissipated the sensation. The lemony flavor of the Sprite combined perfectly with the bitter taste of vodka. It was good. 

Kyle watched in awe as Kenny poured multiple different bottles into his cup, swirling its contents around like a potion. He downed the drink in mere seconds, taking excessive gulps until the cup was completely empty. The fucker didn’t even cough. 

Kyle clutched his fingers tighter around his own drink, as Kenny began making another. He nudged the blonde’s shoulder. “You’re not gonna ditch me, right?!” His voice vibrated in his throat, although Kyle could barely hear it himself. 

He already noticed the absence of Cartman, he probably already found a room to smoke in and was basking in his own ego. Kyle could care less where his frenemy was, he was more concerned about Kenny, praying that he wouldn’t forget that this was Kyle’s first party, and that he didn’t quite know what to do on his own. 

Kenny downed another drink, turning to Kyle. “I won’t ditch you! Scout’s honor!” He yelled, holding up three fingers for emphasis. 

Lying bitch, Kyle thought, as he cradled his cup close to his chest. 

It had been empty for over an hour now, but Kyle couldn’t get another drink if he tried. The hallways were too crowded, and the music was too loud. He would easily get overwhelmed. Besides, he didn’t want to get drunk tonight, he just wanted to have a good time with his friends. He wanted to have a good time for Scott. But of course, as fate would have it, Kenny wandered off some time ago and left Kyle on his own. Now, he was gathered around a group of stoners, who he was pretty sure were the same ones he passed on the way inside the house. 

He wasn’t even sure how he got there. The music began to ring in his ears, so Kyle tried to find a quiet place to just hang. He ended up walking into a living room where the speakers were slightly muted, only to discover the space already occupied. The stoners invited Kyle to sit on the furniture with them, offering up a blunt only for the redhead to refuse. He wanted to have a clear mind, since he knew he would probably be the one to drive home that night. If they would even drive home that night. It was past the two hour mark since Kyle had seen Cartman, and the brunette wasn’t answering any of his texts. By now he was probably in the clouds, much like the other stoners surrounding him now. 

It was times like these where Kyle wished he would just bite the bullet and get his license, but he didn’t want to have to budget for a car. Or gas. He didn’t even have a job, not since two summers ago, where he worked at an ice cream parlor downtown. It was a nice change, but he found himself out of a job come fall. After that, he didn’t want to bother. 

“I just think it’s weird. That’s all.” One of the stoners, a girl, had said in response to another. Kyle hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation. Instead, he was obsessively checking his messages in case he missed any from his friends. 

“Really? I think it’s sweet.” The stoner to Kyle’s left replied, her layered hair draping over the back cushions of the couch. “I have no fucking idea who the guy was, but it’s cute that they had a party in his honor.”

He stiffened, immediately understanding the topic of interest. He guessed it was inevitable, being that the party was centered around Scott’s memorial, but it still hit him with an uncomfortable vibe. 

“If you think about it… it’s kinda like they’re celebrating.” The third stoner, who Kyle was 78% sure he recognized as a junior, chimed in. “…Do you guys think they killed him to get rid of him?!” 

“Holy fuckkkkk..” 

“No way!” 

Kyle turned his phone on again, slumping in disappointment when his screen was blank. There were no notifications, no messages, not even a missed call from his mother. Cartman had announced to their parents that they were having a sleepover at Kenny’s house, because if anyone happened to call the McCormick residence, the chances of the landline going to voicemail were extremely high. It was the best plan he could come up with, Kyle could give him that. 

“Hey.” A voice called, and Kyle instinctively looked up. He met the eyes of each stoner in the room, all staring at him. One of the girls pointed at his chest, a joint still tucked between her fingers. “What’s your name, ginger?”

Kyle turned his phone off, reverting his attention back to the rest of the room. “Uh… it’s Kyle.”

“Last name?” A boy to his right asked. 

He furrowed his eyebrows, slight confusion washing over him. He wondered where the stoners’ sudden interest in him was heading. “…Broflovski?”

“I knew it!” The girl in front of him violently slapped her knee, a smirk rolling across her lips. The sound startled Kyle, yet the others just laughed. She pointed at him again. “You knew him, didn’t you?! The guy that died!” 

Kyle immediately became anxious. “Uh—“

“You did! I see you guys at lunch all the time!” She brought her legs over the chair she was sitting on, pressing her feet against the floor. “Do you know anything? Like— anything the cops don’t?”

Once again, Kyle became the main focus of the room. He shrunk under their stares and maniacal grins, pressure building up in his chest. He wanted to leave. Badly. 

“Put a sock in it, Ashley. Can’t you see the man’s upset?” The girl with layered hair interjected, although Kyle didn’t necessarily appreciate it. 

“Come on! I just wanna know the details!” Ashley defended, before taking another long drag of her blunt. “You gotta know something, red! What happened the night before he died?!”

Kyle hated this. He hated this with every ounce of his being. “I-I don’t—“

“Oh my god, did you know he was being stabbed to death while you slept? Probably screaming, isn’t that so disturbing?” Ashley badgered, snickering at her own words as if she’d said something funny. 

Kyle’s grip on his cup was crushing, the plastic bending under the pressure of his fingers. His vision blurred with tears threatening to escape. He felt like he was going to implode. 

“I mean, fourteen stab wounds!” The stoners mulled over Ashley’s words. “Do you guys think he was alive for all of it??”

Nausea lurched in Kyle’s stomach. He jolted up from where he was sitting, spinning on his heel and practically running out of the room. He ignored the stoners’ calls, asking if he was alright — he wasn’t. Kyle doesn’t think he’d ever be alright again. 

The party music rang in his ears the second he stepped back out into the hallway, having to dodge two boys speeding past him while whooping and hollering. Kyle flipped his head around, looking both ways as if he were about to cross a busy street, trying to choose a direction to wander in. He took off to the right, weaving through groups of people loitering around the house. He walked until he reached the foyer again, recognizing the area. 

His vision blurred significantly as Kyle rushed up the stairs. He turned down the hallway of the second floor, reaching the end and picking a random door to walk through. He all but slammed it closed behind him, not even waiting to check if the room was empty before breaking down. 

The tears came down through violent and wretched sobs. Kyle pressed his back against the door and slid down, plopping against the ground. He wove his fingers through his curls, clutching and pulling trying desperately to get a grip on himself. This was not okay. Nothing was okay. Tolkien Black and his friends could pretend like a party would make everything go back to normal, but Kyle knew the facts. Nothing would ever be the same again. He knew that half the people inside that house only came for the drinks. The weed. The good time. No one feels shame for sweeping Scott Malkinson’s death under the rug. Despite it being South Park’s biggest devastation in decades, people continued to act selfish. They didn’t care, they would never care, they’d keep turning blind eyes towards anything that didn’t directly involve them. It was sickening. 

Kyle wished Scott could see it — how people talk about him like he was just another news article. How they say ‘that’s horrible’ and ‘his poor parents’ before going back to their everyday lives. What the hell happened to the anger? The resentment, the desperation for something to be done about it? How could people sit around and act like this would just go away? He didn’t understand. 

Kyle let himself cry for what felt like hours. Pain pounded behind his eyes and before long, he became tired. He wiped the pads of his fingers under his eyes, clearing his porcelain skin of saltwater trails. His throat felt raw, like he had swallowed a box of nails, the sharp edges scratching and ripping his esophagus. The music was completely muffled from where he sat, his head resting against the door. When he finally chose to open his eyes, he noticed he was inside what looked like a spare bedroom. The walls were a light cream color, and the artwork and decor followed a refined theme. The only light in the room came from a lamp on the bedside table, casting an off white hue over the walls. 

Kyle rose to his feet, moving from the floor onto the queen sized bed. He sat on the dark brown comforter, neatly tucked under various accent pillows. The material creased under his weight, his feet hanging over the edge of the mattress. It was quiet now, just like he wanted. His brain ached from his racing thoughts, Kyle didn’t want to think anymore. He was tired. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking again for any word from Kenny or Cartman. The time read twelve o’clock, meaning it was already the next day. Kyle was ready to go home. He clicked on Kenny’s contact and listened to the line ring. He cracked his knuckles while patiently waiting for the other boy to pick up, although he didn’t have much hope. By now Kenny was probably passed out somewhere in the house, despite his promise of not ditching Kyle. 

He should have known something like this was going to happen. It was Kyle’s own fault really, for his limited number of friends. Maybe if he was well known like Stan Marsh, he wouldn’t find himself sitting alone in a random bedroom, sad and regretful of his choices. He hoped someone would reply to him sooner than later. He desperately wanted to go home and sleep, drift away into his imagination for a few hours. 

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened, the party music briefly flooding into the quiet room. In stumbled a disheveled Stan Marsh, holding a cup with his name scribbled in sharpie on the side. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Kyle thought. 

They locked eyes, and Stan froze, his hand still loosely clutching the door knob. Kyle stood up from the bed, rapidly wiping the rest of his tears away. He really didn’t want to cry in front of his arch nemesis. 

“Who the fuck let you in?” Stan demanded, his eyes slanting with a minor amount of aggravation. 

Kyle cocked an eyebrow. Stan Marsh, of all people, did not deserve to know his emotions. He answered with as much attitude he could muster. “It’s a seniors only party. I’m a senior. I thought you were supposed to be smart?” 

Stan rolled his eyes, stepping aside and gesturing to the hallway. “Whatever. Get out, I’m about to bring a girl in here.” 

Kyle scoffed and shook his head. “Typical.”

He tried to walk out of the bedroom, but Stan blocked his path and pushed him back inside. 

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Kyle shot him a glare. “I said typical. Typical Stan Marsh, trashed and physically unable to care about anyone but himself.” 

Stan’s expression twisted with anger. “At least I know how to have fun! You’re as uptight as you were in middle school!”

“And I had a pretty good reason to be, didn’t I?!” Kyle snapped. He could have sworn that Stan flinched, but maybe he was just trying not to pass out. 

A short beat of silence elapsed over the room, as Stan finally let go of the doorknob. “Why don’t you just do everyone a favor and go home?” He replied, his tone tired and annoyed. 

Kyle shook his head with disbelief. He shouldn’t have expected anything different, feeling his blood boil after an interaction with his enemy. It was typical, neither of them wanted to be in the same vicinity for more than a second. And so many years of pent up rage towards the other would never just dissipate, no matter the situation. 

“Gladly.” Kyle spat, and bumped Stan’s shoulder roughly as he pushed past him, despite their height difference. The raven-haired boy stumbled from the force, but quickly regained his balance. 

Kyle could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head as he stormed down the hallway. He needed some fresh air. 

The night was cold, colder than the last time Kyle had stepped outside. He was damn near freezing in his flannel shirt and jeans, the long sleeves not being enough to contain his warmth. He chastised himself for leaving his jacket in Cartman’s SUV. He’d tried to open the door to grab it on his way out, but the paranoid bastard had locked it. Kyle didn’t bother calling him, knowing it would just go straight to voicemail. He’d just have to suck it up. Being cold was the last thing on his mind, especially after what just happened.

Kyle wrapped his arms around himself as he walked, down Tolkien’s driveway and towards the main road. He didn’t know how far he wanted to go, he just wanted something to do that didn’t involve anyone else. The sound of the music slowly died out the further the house became, until there was nothing but crickets around him. A breeze sifted through the branches of the evergreen trees, no doubt half the cause of the dropping temperatures.

Kyle couldn’t help himself from crying again. Part of him wanted Stan to cut him some fucking slack, considering they both so recently lost someone in such a brutal fashion — someone they both cared deeply about. But, again, Stan Marsh carried himself with a negligent attitude, a blatant disregard for others’ emotions beside his own. He wasn’t surprised when his first instinct was to rip on Kyle for being at the party. 

The sound of Kyle’s steady footsteps calmed his mind, his shoes tapping lightly against the smooth black top. Tolkien’s driveway was lined with small solar lights, planted within the mulch that bordered the rest of the yard. It was acute lighting, yet fitting for the atmosphere. The moon shone brightly down across the town, with only a few clouds scattered throughout the sky. The stars were completely visible, with Tolkien’s house being out of the way, there was little to no light pollution in the area. Kyle liked that.

He sighed out, a long puff of air leaving his lungs and forming its own cloud against the frigid weather. Kyle wiped a stray tear that had rolled down his cheek, despite the fact that he had significantly calmed down compared to five minutes ago. He felt lighter, not so cramped and trapped in a house full of people. The anxiety in his gut had gradually disappeared, until he finally felt okay enough to relax. 

Kyle hadn’t even noticed how far he’d gone until he turned onto the sidewalk, already reaching the main road. He stopped for a moment, considering going back before he regretted going further. But, it wasn’t like he was supposed to be going home any time soon. And he’d hear if Kenny or Cartman tried to call him. So, he continued on, turning down the street and strolling along the sidewalk. 

The other houses on the road were far apart, which Kyle guessed was normal in a rich neighborhood. The properties were all about an acre wide, each one having an extraordinary front yard. Brilliant gardens, although colorless from the changing seasons, stood out against the flat grass for a bit of contrast. 

Kyle was basking in the silence, until his phone began ringing. It took him a mere second to recognize the tune. And when he did, he froze up completely. Quickly grabbing the device from his pocket, Kyle was met with Scott Malkinson’s name and contact picture lighting up his screen. 

He released a shaky breath, fear overwhelming his senses. He whipped his body around, checking his surroundings while half expecting to find someone watching him. Who, he wasn’t quite sure, but it was perfect timing. Almost too perfect. Kyle was alone, isolated in the middle of a dark neighborhood. This proved that someone had in fact taken Scott’s phone. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that he was dialed twice. The only question was, why was the stranger calling again? 

With a chill that wracked his spine, Kyle swiped over the screen and placed the phone to his ear. “…Hello?” 

The silence was almost deafening. Kyle never realized how a situation could determine that, until now. He heard nothing from the stranger on the other end, which was somehow more disturbing than the sound of breathing — from the first time this occurred. 

“…Why are you crying, Kyle?” 

The deep voice that responded had caught him so off guard, Kyle almost dropped his phone. His eyes widened with terror, as soon as the words settled in. He looked around again, his desolate surroundings causing anxiety to bloom in his chest. 

“Who are you?” He found himself asking. His heart was hammering against his ribcage, but his sense of curiosity reigned supreme. “Did you kill Scott Malkinson?”

There was silence again, and Kyle was worried he’d scared the stranger off. He didn’t know what the person’s intentions were, maybe to scare him, or kill him, but if he was going to die then he was going to die with answers.

“…I asked why you were crying. Don’t be rude.” The voice said.

Kyle felt a flicker of anger in his chest. “Don’t be rude? You killed my best friend and you don’t want me to be rude?”

There was a noise on the other end, something that sounded like a distorted chuckle.

“I just wanted to have a civil conversation with you.” The voice replied.

“Why?!” Kyle yelled into the phone, unsatisfied with the stranger’s words. “Who the hell even are you?!” 

“Someone who knows what goes on behind closed doors.” The voice answered. “I do not like what I see, Kyle.”

Kyle repressed another shiver. He was scared to move, worried that if he tried he would be dead before he could even scream. The stranger was watching him, from somewhere close. They had to bs, they knew he was crying. 

“What does that mean?” His series of questions continued, following the stranger’s ominous speech. 

“…It means I’m going to stop it.” 

Kyle opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t get the chance to after the call was dropped. He removed the phone from his ear, a new feeling of dread washing over him.

He didn’t know what to think. The stranger’s voice was too deep to recognize, almost like they were using a modulator app through the phone. What the hell did they even mean they were going to stop it? Stop what? 

Kyle jumped when his phone began ringing again. His heart dropped, thinking the stranger was calling him back. But that was before Kyle realized the tune was different. He flipped the screen over, reading Cartman’s name.

With a relieved sigh, he answered. “H—“

“Where the fuck are you Kahl we want to go home!” Cartman rudely cut him off before Kyle could get a single word in. 

He didn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes. He was paranoid now, spooked by the previous interaction. Kyle turned around, staring into the trees that surrounded the neighborhood. 

“I— I took a walk.” He breathed, his chest tight with fear. 

“Get the hell back here or I’m making Kinny drive!” Cartman ordered, before ending the call. 

Kyle bit his lip nervously. He didn’t want to walk back, not with the knowledge that he was likely being watched by a murderer. But he supposed that the stranger already had plenty of chances to kill him. He had been walking for fifteen minutes, no one knew where he was. It would have been so easy. Yet, he was still breathing. 

Kyle wiped away another tear before stepping forward.

Chapter Text

Stan’s trip back to the world of consciousness was long and brutal. His eyelids felt as if they were glued together, his head weighing against the pillow like a cinder block. As he stirred, he released an involuntary moan, wiggling his fingers until the numbness in his muscles depleted. Morning light poured through the blinds on the window, although Stan wouldn’t be surprised if it was already past noon. He’d done it before, wasted the day away while prancing around in a dreamless slumber. 

Movement next to him had caught him off guard. Stan snapped his eyes open, ice blue irises landing on a mop of brown hair. His lips parted with confusion, immediately trying to jog his memory of last night’s events.

The crowd chanting Stan’s name only encouraged him to keep going. He turned over shot glass after shot glass, downing the bitter liquid and quickly going down the line. Kevin was behind him, supporting his back in case he was the first to collapse. Across the table, Clyde was only a few glasses behind, having to take a small break between shots to make sure he could hold it down. Stan knew the boy had no chance against him, his tolerance was much higher than most of his friends’ had assumed, which crowned him an undefeated champion at nearly every drinking game. 

Stan barely noticed the goosebumps form on his arms, the cold night air refreshing against his sweaty skin. He couldn’t remember exactly when the party had moved from the house into the backyard, but he was glad to have a break from the stuffy indoors. The music was rumbling through the speakers surrounding Tolkien’s patio, blasting Pitbull across the yard. Stan bobbed his head along to the beat of Fireball , swallowing another ounce of tequila. 

Without warning, Clyde spit out the liquid and doubled over, vomiting all over the patio. He turned over the glass anyway, even if it didn’t count. The side of the crowd which was rooting for him booed, throwing empty solo cups at the boy still hurling. 

Despite already winning, Stan didn’t slow down. His throat burned and his tongue was numb, he could feel his stomach churning with nauseating qualms. Kevin gripped his shoulders from behind, shaking Stan while jumping up and down with excitement. The crowd mirrored his movements, still chanting Stan’s name until the word felt foreign on their tongues. Over the noise, Stan couldn’t hear himself think. Which was exactly what he wanted. 

He slammed the final shot glass onto the table, throwing both fists up into the air. The crowd exploded into hoots and hollers, cheering loudly when the game was finished. Stan gagged as he attempted to swallow the alcohol sloshing around in his mouth, placing a fist over his lips. He forced it down, ignoring the bile clawing at his throat. 

Tolkien draped an arm around his shoulders, pumping his fist into the air. “Lucky number twelve, did it again!”

Stan cringed as the screaming became louder, but only for a moment. Once the excitement was over, everyone surrounding the table resumed back to regular party activities — dancing, drinking, and gossiping into the night. The music was once again loud in Stan’s ears, although not enough to silence the voice of his conscience. He could hear the better half of him screaming into his mind, recalling everything he shouldn’t be celebrating. 

Stan kept quiet about the disturbing phone call from Scott Malkinson. Or, rather, someone using Scott Malkinson’s number. He didn’t care who it was, he only cared about the fact that the creep on the other line knew his name. Stan’s first thought was that one of his friends was behind it, but that wouldn’t have explained the first call either. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t want it to make sense. He just wanted to pretend it didn’t happen. Would it kill the universe to give him a fucking break once in a while? 

“Oh, man, that was incredible, dude! I can’t believe you didn’t puke!” Kevin praised with a sparkle in his eye, now holding a cup which seemed to have come from thin air. 

Clyde finally stood up straight, bracing himself on the table as he wiped a sleeve over his mouth. “Christ, Marsh, I always forget what an animal you are!” 

“Did you seriously think you could beat me at my own game, Donovan?” Stan quipped in return, breathing heavily until the urge to throw up completely dissipated. He could hear his conscience clear as day, so he grabbed Tolkien’s cup from his hand and threw back whatever was inside. His taste buds sizzled as he swallowed a rum and coke. He didn’t stop drinking until his mind was filled with fuzz. 

“You’re gonna hate yourself in the morning, dude.” Tolkien said, not bothering to fight over his stolen beverage. He was only half-drunk, probably wanting to stay sober in case of an emergency. Tolkien was responsible like that. It pissed Stan off. 

He sucked in a harsh breath of air once the cup was empty. “I— I already hate myself, Tolkien. Regardless of the time of day.”  

Stan chuckled at his own deprecating joke, along with the rest of his friends. He savored the sweet mixture of coca-cola and bacardi, contrasting the tequila enough to almost calm the queasiness in his gut. 

“Ohh, fuck, it’s hittin’ me now.” Clyde stumbled over his own feet as he tried to take a step. Kevin caught his bicep, steadying him on the patio. 

Stan weaved his way past the table, heading for the sliding glass doors of the house. Tolkien called to him, “Where you going, dude?” 

Stan shot his arm up, dramatically pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “Refill time!” 

A sudden sharp pang drilled into his forehead. Stan squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, pressing his palm against his head. He could barely remember anything that happened after he went back inside, except the vague memory of claiming his own cup with a sharpie signature. 

The noise hadn’t bothered the sleeping body beside him. Not that Stan really cared, he was too engrossed with trying to ease himself awake. He groaned again as the feeling of nausea crept up his throat. Ripping the dark brown comforter off his body — which he only then realized he was bare except for a pair of boxers — Stan darted around to the other side of the room, where a door to a guest bathroom lay ajar. He quickly flicked on the light before dropping onto the floor, the cool tile almost burning against his skin. He lifted the lid of the toilet and hurled out everything in his stomach. He shut his eyes tight, the sight of his mistakes only worsening the sickness that brewed in his gut. 

Stan heaved until there was nothing but saliva dripping from his tongue, his fingers grasped the toilet seat in a vain effort to ground himself. He spit into the water, reaching up to flush away the bile when his stomach decided he was done. Stan waited for the water to stop spinning before he draped himself over the seat, breathing in a cold scent of reality. 

He pulled himself away from the toilet, drowsiness overtaking his body. Despite this, he gathered himself to his feet, using the adjacent wall for extra support. The bright lights scorched his vision and distorted his line of sight. Stan blindly reached for the switch, sighing in relief when the bathroom was flooded with darkness. The pounding in his head instantly mollified, allowing for Stan to regain a little bit of his composure. 

He trudged his way back to the bed, finally getting a glimpse of the person he woke up in bed with. It was a girl, with smudged lipstick and faded eyeliner painted over her face. Stan didn’t recognize her, which made it all the more interesting. He wondered how they ended up together, although Stan always seemed to have a way with words when hammered. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was his doing. 

The bed squeaked and the mattress dipped as he sat down on the edge, pulling his phone from the nightstand. He scrolled through his notifications, most of them from photos he was tagged in, or messages from his friends. But when he got to the bottom of the list, three missed calls from his father made his heart drop. Apparently, his excuse of going to the gym wasn’t enough to suffice. 

“Shit.” Stan breathed, before grabbing his discarded grey t-shirt that lay on the floor. He slipped it over his torso, the cool fabric pressing loosely against his skin. He pulled up his jeans, re-buckling his belt before gathering the rest of his belongings.

He left the room quietly, so as to not disturb the sleeping girl.  

Kyle was on autopilot for the entire day. As the hours painfully dragged on, it felt as though he wasn’t living in his own body. Like he was watching himself from an outsider’s point of view, unable to tether himself back to reality. There was just too much on his mind, too much to process. People spoke to him, asked him things, but Kyle couldn’t remember what their words entailed. He nodded and shook his head when the time called for it, but he hadn’t spoken a word since last night — when he drove his friends home in Cartman’s SUV. 

He remembered how hard his hands shook while clutching the wheel, driving ten miles under the speed limit in case there were cop cars camping out on backroads. Kyle told Cartman that he’d return his car the next day, that he didn’t feel comfortable letting him drive himself back home, even if Kyle hated him with every fiber of his being. Cartman had, of course, put up a struggle to the arrangement, spewing out insults and threats which were time and time again proven to be empty. He was sober enough to let himself back into his house, sober enough to flip Kyle off as he drove away. Kenny had been next, slumped over in the backseat emitting soft snores as he slept. Thankfully Kyle was able to wake him up before he would need to carry him inside. 

He parked the SUV on the street in front of his house, making a mental note to drive it back over to Cartman’s before his parents woke up. He didn’t mind the early hours of which he spent staring at his ceiling fan, Kyle knew he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep. His mind repeated the stranger’s words as if he were hearing them again for the first time. 

‘It means I’m going to stop it.’

It bothered him, irked him to the point where Kyle wanted to rip his hair out, that he couldn’t figure out what the stranger had meant. He knew it was a threat of some kind, that much was obvious, but what did it mean? What were they referring to? What was he missing? Kyle came close to calling Scott’s contact, just to ask the stranger for further elaboration. But he knew that that was far out of the question. 

What were even the odds that he would dial the same person again? He couldn’t attest as to how the stranger knew his name, or why he had been watching him the night of the party, but could it have just been some sick prank? Cartman was the only person Kyle knew of that would willingly do something like that, but the boy was too high to even breathe correctly, there wasn’t a chance that it was him. 

His mind and his conscience were at an impasse. Kyle didn’t know what to do. He had been texting Kenny all day, begging for him to meet him just so he’d have someone to talk about it with. But with such a severe hangover, Kyle would be lucky if Kenny answered his phone before Monday. On this, the one thing Kyle couldn’t understand, he was alone. 

“Kyle!” 

Kyle’s eyes shot up towards his mother, who had apparently already called his name three times. She was looking at him with expectant eyes, dropping her fork onto her plate with a clatter. 

“I asked you to repeat everything your father and I just said to you.” Sheila instructed, glancing between both Kyle, and Ike, who sat next to him at the table. 

Kyle grabbed his glass of lemonade, sipping on the cool liquid until he felt his eyebrows unfurrow. Beside him, Ike rolled his eyes, before spreading his palm to begin listing things. 

“Don’t answer the door for anyone but Mrs. Calloway, don’t leave the stove on, lock the doors before bed, homework before video games, check the mail, no parties, and, uh…” 

“Stay out of my office.” Gerald finished for Ike, as he cut into his steak, the knife briefly scraping against the ceramic and releasing a high pitched squeak.

“Right.” Ike put up a seventh finger, nodding. “Stay out of your office. No offense Dad, but I really don’t think anything about your work is interesting enough to snoop around for.” 

Gerald shrugged, popping a piece of steak into his mouth. “Touché.” 

Sheila picked up her fork again, before turning her focus back to her sons. “I’ve already stocked the fridge, so you boys should be fine for the next week or two. We’re leaving you money—“

Ike perked up, face lighting up with glee. 

“—But not to spend on pizza deliveries every night.” Sheila emphasized, and Ike slumped back against his chair. “It’ll be for emergencies only. Ike, Mrs. Davis will be driving you to scouts and back home afterwards. Kyle,”

Kyle looked up at his mother again, absentmindedly twirling his fork into his pasta.

“You are to be home on the nights that Ike doesn't go to scouts. He is too young to be left by himself.”

Ike protested. “Aw, mom!” 

Sheila shut him down, holding up her finger while she continued talking to Kyle. “You are allowed three friends over. If you need to go somewhere, you will let Mrs. Calloway know beforehand, so that she can come to the house to check on Ike. Understood?”

Kyle huffed, resting his chin on his hand. “Yeah, Mom. Got it.”

“Oh come on, how come Kyle gets to have his friends over but not me?!” Ike’s voice was nearing the borderline of yelling. From across the table, Gerald glared at him with a stern eye.

“Because Kyle’s friends don’t ransack the pantry without asking. Do they, Kyle?” 

Kyle remembered when his family used to enforce a no-eating policy in rooms other than the kitchen and dining room, but that quickly fell through after Ike’s friends continuously spilled crumbs on the couch cushions. Sheila had scolded them each time, yet the rule never really stuck. It wasn’t entirely their fault, either, since Kyle had also been guilty of snacking while watching TV. It was a habit. 

“Oh no, they do. They’re just sneaky about it.” He quipped, finally taking a bite of his pasta. 

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Gerald pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance, as Ike smiled with hopeful eyes. “Just— no more than three, okay Ike?” 

Ike held up his hand to salute their father. “Got it!”

Kyle felt his mother’s eyes still on him. He could practically hear already what she was thinking, the look of sympathy on her face was enough said.

“Oh, bubby, I feel just terrible leaving you to deal with all of this on your own. Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?” 

Kyle sighed. He had told both of his parents that yes, Scott’s death was a tragedy, but that he has no choice but to move on. That was only a half-truth, of course. Kyle couldn’t bring up the phone calls he’d gotten from his dead best friend’s contact. In order to keep them off his case, he’d have to pretend like everything was normal. Just like every other ‘grieving’ resident in South Park.

Ironically, Kyle had wanted this dinner to go without having to talk about him. He knew if he did he would only become more upset than he was when he woke up. As much as he wanted Scott’s legacy to carry on through stories about the good times, Kyle’s objective consisted of something else. Just for the time being. He needed to keep a clear head, although that was proven to be nearly impossible, and figure out who the hell has been calling him. 

“Yeah, son. We have no problem cancelling the flight, even if it is a little last minute.” Gerald seconded Sheila’s opinion. 

Kyle opened his mouth to reply, when a small hand clutched his bicep with a bruising grip. He turned to Ike, who subtly shook his head whilst giving his older brother a pleading look. He sighed again, looking back up to his parents. He was planning on declining their offer anyway, but Ike’s silent plea was the icing on the cake. 

“No. You guys deserve to have a good time on your anniversary. I don’t want to ruin it for you.” He said, and the grip around his arm instantly disappeared. 

“Oh, Kyle, you wouldn’t be ruining it, sweetie. You know our family comes first before anything else. It’s okay if you need us here.” Sheila replied, eyebrows upturning with concern. 

Kyle smiled lightly. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Seriously. You guys go have fun.” 

Sheila reluctantly dropped the subject, relaxing herself against the chair. “Alright, bubby. If you insist.” 

Kyle took another bite of his food, as the rest of the table descended into comfortable silence. He tried not to space out again, he didn’t want to spend the last dinner with his parents on another plane of existence. Part of him actually wanted them to stay, the greedy and grief-stricken part of him. He’d never felt this kind of pain before, losing one of his best friends so horribly out of nowhere. It was worse because Scott wasn’t hit by a car, he didn’t fall down a flight of stairs — he was murdered. Kyle guessed that he had a hard time wrapping his head around that.

Right now, at this very moment, there was a killer on the loose in South Park, someone with a ravenous hunger for violence. And Kyle couldn’t help but think that maybe this was only the beginning. Maybe there was more to come.

“What do you guys think?” Cartman asked, spinning around and showing off a brown t-shirt with a pocket on the front. ”Snazzy? Casual? Both?” 

That morning, Kyle had woken up early to see his parents off while they packed their things into Randy Marsh’s car. He stood on the front porch with a hot cup of coffee, and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He felt as if he were watching his spouse leave for the military, or the war. It would only be two weeks until he’d see them again, but something told him that it would feel much longer than that. He wasn’t worried about having to take care of Ike by himself, after all this wasn’t the first time their parents took a vacation without them, but Kyle still felt a little reluctant letting them leave. That same part of him wanted to call out, beg them to cancel their flight, but he knew that that was selfish. And, it would only complicate things. Kyle had promised Kenny that he wouldn’t play detective, but with dread eating him from the inside out, he didn’t know how long he could go without doing so. 

He had waved to his parents as Randy backed out of their driveway, Sheila yelling for him to say goodbye to Ike on their behalf. His little brother had still been asleep, deliberately missing his last chance to see his parents for the next two weeks. Ike had claimed that he was too tired to get out of bed, that he needed all the rest he could get before his Sunday plans. A few hours later, Mrs. Davis picked him up with a carpool of Ike’s friends, heading to the arcade. Being the responsible sibling, Kyle gave Ike a time that he needed to be home, to which the middle-schooler dismissed with a ‘yeah, yeah, mom’ . 

He wasn’t too fond of having to spend the day by himself, there wasn’t much that he could do around the house to keep himself occupied. Which was why he was ecstatic when Kenny finally answered him, along with Cartman who wanted to go to the mall. Now, it was the late afternoon, and Kyle had been itching to get a moment alone with Kenny, so he could tell the blonde everything about the stranger, and the threatening phone call he’d received the night of Tolkien’s party. 

“Oh, dude, no way.” Kenny stifled a laugh while violently shaking his head. “Brown is not your color. You legitimately look like a walking turd.” 

“Shut up Kinny! You wouldn’t know good style if it smacked you up the side of your broke ass head!” Cartman fired back, studying his reflection in the full-length mirror. He turned his body around, scrutinizing the shirt which he found in the clearance section. “You’re just jealous because I always find the good stuff.”

“What good stuff? Like the stained hoodie you wanted oh so badly?” Kyle teased, reminiscent of the earlier hours of their shopping trip. 

“He only wanted it because it matches the rest of his greasy wardrobe.” Kenny snickered. Cartman whipped around again. 

“Ay! It wasn’t stained, it was just the lighting!” He exclaimed, crossing his arms. “When the hell are you guys actually gonna shop instead of ripping on everything I think is kewl?” 

“Hey, I’ve spent my paycheck already. I’m out.” Kenny raised his arms in mock surrender, a bag from Hot Topic slung around his wrist. Cartman narrowed his eyes, placing his hands on his hips.

“Uh-huh. And what about you Kahl?” 

Kyle rolled his eyes. He really only came to the mall so that he could talk to Kenny, but that was proven to be a lot more difficult than expected. It had been almost three hours since they arrived, Kyle hoped that one of his friends would have to go to the bathroom soon. He really needed to get this off his chest.

“I don’t need anything, fatass. I just wanted to get out of the house for a while.” 

“Mhm, tell that to your closet of three shirts.” Cartman said, while closing the door to the changing room. Lifting the t-shirt off his torso, he grabbed his bunched up hoodie and pulled it over his head. 

“Oh, shut up, dude. I own more than three shirts.” Kyle tried to defend himself, but was immediately shut down.

“Yeah, you’re right. You own four.” Kenny teased. Kyle gave him a playful smack on the shoulder. 

Cartman walked out of the changing room clad in his regular red hoodie, one that Kyle was sure hadn’t been washed in at least a week. He’d worn it to school multiple days in a row, their other classmates even picking on him for it. His musk was usually covered by a copious amount of cologne, which only encouraged him to keep wearing it. Cartman had had that hoodie since they were fourteen, the front pocket threads were coming loose and the aglets on the drawstrings were rugged with age. At that point, Kyle wondered if it had sentimental value or something.

“Alright. I’m hungry. Food break?” Cartman announced, picking up his bags from other stores which he left on the ground. 

“Dude, I got, like… five bucks to my name.” Kenny replied, sighing as he stood up from the ottoman in the changing room. “So unless you’re paying—“

“I don’t even give money to charity, you think I’m gonna give any to you?!” Cartman spat, narrowing his eyes at Kenny as if he were a bug under his shoe. 

Kenny rolled his eyes as Cartman passed by, heading to the exit of the clothing store. Kyle nudged his side with his elbow. 

“I’ll pay, dude. Don’t worry.” He said, earning himself a soft smile from the blonde. 

They navigated their way across the mall to a pizza restaurant, one that they’d been to before on their many shopping adventures. Except, usually it was with Tweek and Butters, but the two aforementioned blondes had been busy with work that day. Sundays were Tweek’s days to run his parents’ coffee shop downtown, and Butters worked the afternoon shift at Sizzler’s. His and Kenny’s manager offered that they could take time off to grieve, but both boys insisted that they needed the money. On weekends, Kenny usually worked the morning shifts, but for obvious reasons he had called out that day. Although, for having a hangover, Kyle noted that he had been functioning much better than other times. 

The pizza restaurant was fairly busy, being one of the only decent places in the food court. The aroma of garlic and warm bread floated around the atmosphere as Kyle walked inside, stomach growling with a pang of hunger. He did, end up paying, but not just for Kenny’s food. Apparently, Cartman’s credit card had declined on the reader machine, although he wondered if the brunette had used the wrong one on purpose. The only thing Cartman loved more than causing problems, was getting things for free. And as much as Kyle wanted to fight with him about it, he had more important matters at hand. He was getting anxious, if he didn’t talk to Kenny soon he would simply implode with stress.

Their drinks had come first, before a large steaming pepperoni pizza was placed in the middle of their table, along with an order of garlic knots and onion rings. Kyle’s knee bobbed under the table as he took a sip of his soda, silently begging for Cartman to go somewhere else for a bit. But when the brunette opened his mouth to start a conversation, Kyle’s hopes were shut down. 

“You guys hear about that gay ass assembly tomorrow?” Cartman asked, through a mouthful of garlic knots. Kyle almost gagged at the sight. 

He cocked an eyebrow, picking a piece of pepperoni off his pizza slice. “…You mean the one Principal Victoria set up? For Scott? Our friend?” 

“Yeah, that one.” Cartman washed down his food with a large gulp of Pepsi. “I don’t understand why we’re required to go if all they’re gonna talk about is how sad they think we are.” 

For once, Kyle saw Cartman’s point. He puffed out his bottom lip and nodded, approvingly. It was sort of a waste of time, but an assembly was probably the only way their principal could express her condolences to everyone all at once. A lazy way of dealing with grief. Kyle had seen mention about it over social media, even overheard people talking about it the night of Tolkien’s party. He wouldn’t lie and say he wanted to go, but at the same time he felt like he had to. Just for Scott. 

“Well at least I get to skip trig.” Kenny said, reaching over the pizza to grab an onion ring. 

Cartman scoffed. “You mean the sophomore class that you failed twice? I know poor people don’t get the best education, but Jesus Christ!” 

Kyle grabbed the biggest onion ring he could find before chucking it across the table, hitting Cartman square in the forehead. “Shut it fatass! Are you at all capable of possessing any ounce of decency?!” 

“Jesus Kahl, I was just being rational!” Cartman rubbed the stinging spot on his skin, a stray crumb from the battered onion ring falling on his hoodie. 

“More like cruel, you moron.” Kyle grumbled back, gripping his pizza slice with a harsh amount of force. 

Cartman rolled his eyes and groaned, before shimmying himself out of the booth, much to Kyle’s hope. “Whatever. I’m going to the bathroom. Try to get that sand out of your vagina before I get back, kay?” 

Kyle ignored him, watching him walk away until he was far enough out of earshot. Once he was in the clear, he dropped his pizza back onto the plate, the action startling Kenny. Kyle turned to the blonde, fully facing him. 

He didn’t beat around the bush, itching to get to the point. “They called me again.”

Kenny, who was munching on his own slice of pizza, stopped. His eyebrows slowly furrowed together. “Who?”

“The fucker with Scott’s phone!” Kyle hissed, double checking his surroundings to make sure no one could hear them. The other guests had been too engrossed with their own conversations to care. “They called me at Tolkien’s party. I was talking a walk, and—“

“Woah, woah, woah!” Kenny held up his hands to stop him, now facing Kyle with a concerned expression. “You took a walk? In the middle of the night? By yourself?! Dude!” 

“I was— stressed, okay?!” Kyle said, diplomatically. “And that’s besides the point, anyway. They called me again. And this time they talked, Kenny.” 

Kenny’s face dropped. “What—“

“They talked to me, dude! They used some kind of voice changer, too!” He couldn’t stifle the excitement that rose in his chest. Now that he had someone to tell, maybe he could figure this whole thing out. 

“Kyle, what the fuck, why didn’t you tell me?!” Kenny scolded him, an incredulous look in his eyes. 

Kyle shot him an unimpressed glare. “You were drunk, and you weren’t answering your phone. Why do you think I’m telling you now?” 

Kenny gaped at him before closing his mouth, shrinking back slightly. “Fair point.” 

“It doesn’t matter now.” Kyle waved his hand dismissively. “Kenny, they knew my name.” 

“What?!” Kenny nearly shouted. “How?!” 

“I don’t know!” Kyle answered. “But that isn’t even the worst part! They said something really cryptic. It— I mean, it sounded a lot like a threat.” 

“A threat?” Kenny’s eyes flashed with a serious tint. 

“I asked them who they were, and they referred to themselves as,” Kyle used his fingers as quotation marks. “‘Someone who knows what goes on behind closed doors’. Then they said that they don’t like what they see, and that they’re going to stop it.”

Kenny’s jaw bobbed up and down like a fish out of water, struggling to say something. “I— you better not be lying to me, dude.” 

“Why the hell would I lie about this?! I’m not Cartman, okay, I don’t get off over chaos!” Kyle defended, before reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “Here.”

He tapped on his phone’s icon, scrolling down the list of recent numbers until he reached the time stamp of Tolkien’s party. Kyle flipped the phone around, so Kenny could see Scott Malkinson’s name. 

He took the phone from his hands. “…Holy shit.” Kyle folded his arms, watching as Kenny glanced between both him and the screen. “H-Holy shit.”

“I know.” He reached for his phone back, sliding it into his pocket. “I asked them if they killed Scott, but they didn’t answer. I’m starting to think it’s not a homeless guy, Ken.”

“Kyle, we should go to the cops.” Kenny advised, his eyebrows downturned with worry. “I mean, the first time was weird, but if this is really Scott’s killer—“ 

“Dude, we can’t! You’re the one who told me I’d be their number one suspect if I do!” Kyle pointed in a random direction for emphasis. He pressed his fingers into the table’s surface, staring at Kenny with an earnest glare. “You’re the only one I’ve told. Please, dude, you’ve gotta help me figure this out. What if—“

Kyle’s words failed him, throat straining as a wave of dread washed through him. Kenny glanced between his eyes, expecting a continuation of his thoughts. 

Kyle gulped. “…What if they kill again? Kenny, what if someone else dies?” 

“No. Absolutely not.” Kenny shook his head, grabbing Kyle’s hand on the table. “You can’t think about that now, Kyle. Don’t put yourself under any more stress. Just focus on going to the police, okay? It will look more incriminating if they find out about the calls from someone else.”

“But—“ Kyle protested, about to argue when Cartman plopped back down onto his seat, sliding all the way to the inside of the booth. Immediately, Kyle and Kenny turned away from each other, sitting forward again. 

“D’you get that sand out, dipshit?” Cartman asked casually, taking a bite of his pizza. 

Kyle rolled his eyes, and beside him Kenny grabbed his phone and began typing something. Soon, Kyle’s own phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out just as Kenny put his away, reading off the text on his screen. 

From: Kendoll: promise me you’ll go to the cops tomorrow. 

Kyle kneaded his lip between his teeth, biting back another argument that he knew he would never win. Kenny was always his voice of reason, living proof of his conscience whenever conflict arose. Kyle wasn’t a very good listener when he was emotionally driven — he tended to react blindly and recklessly if he was upset. Kenny knew this, more than anyone, as his best and longest friend. So, against his own wishes, he answered his text. 

To: Kendoll: I promise.

“Ike! Breakfast!” Kyle yelled up the stairwell before retreating back to the kitchen, the smell of blueberry pancakes, eggs, and bacon saturating the downstairs floor. He had already set the table, knowing yet that the first thing his little brother would do is grab his plate and run to the living room. Still, he wanted it to feel like their parents hadn’t left yet. He liked their routine, as strict as it felt, it was normal to him. 

It was October now, a new week marked a new month. The leaves had started to fall off the trees surrounding Kyle’s house, a reminder that the yard would need to be raked sometime soon. People began putting up their halloween decorations, he could tell by the giant skeleton standing in his next door neighbor’s front yard, one he’d seen whilst picking up the newspaper on his porch. Kyle only skimmed across the bold lettering at the top of the front page, only after reading it did he wish he hadn’t. 

‘South Park — Teen Boy Found Brutally Murdered in Small Colorado Mountain Town’

He had thrown the paper in a basket under the entryway table, a place that was usually for shoes, but recently Kyle had noticed his father began using it to store junk mail. 

In the kitchen, he grabbed two empty cups and placed them on the table, just as a light set of footsteps trudged down the stairs. Ike rounded the bannister and arrived in the kitchen, having yet to change out of his pajamas. He wore a light blue onesie, the same one he’d had since he was nine. Kyle used to have a matching red one, but he’d grown out of it the same time he grew out of his glow in the dark stars. 

“What’s all this? Why are you cosplaying Dad?” Ike asked, rubbing a fist over his eyes as he stared at the breakfast feast on the table. 

Kyle huffed out a laugh, opening the fridge while grabbing a jug of orange juice. “Calm down. The pancakes were frozen.” 

“Oh great, even more of a reason to starve myself.” Ike rolled his eyes, dodging just in time as Kyle reached out to ruffle his hair. 

“Hey! I’m in charge now, alright? So you’re gonna eat my cooking and you’re gonna like it!” He said, smiling fondly as his little brother chose to sit at the table. 

“Fine, but we’re ordering pizza tonight. Monday special.” Ike bartered, grabbing the plate of pancakes and shuffling a few onto his plate.

“I don’t think Monday specials are a thing, but, okay.” Kyle shrugged, pouring orange juice into both of their cups.  He sat down across from his brother, filling his own plate with food until there was barely any room. 

“By the way, Conner’s mom is driving me to school. I would rather contract a deadly disease than ride with you and Stan.” Ike said, while shoving an entire pancake in his mouth. 

Kyle froze. 

Oh shit. 

“Oh, shit.” He parroted his thoughts, dropping his fork and dropping his head into his hands. 

Kyle had been so caught up with figuring out why he’d been getting calls from a potential murderer, he completely forgot about Stan Marsh having to drive him to school for the time his parents were gone. He cursed himself, how could something like that just slip his mind?! He would be forced to interact with the one person on earth he hated more than anything, for two whole weeks. For two whole weeks he’d be constantly reminded of the worst day of his life. 

Then again, maybe Stan wouldn’t even show up. Maybe he would flake, conveniently forget about the arrangement and not force Kyle to talk to him! Maybe— 

Fat chance, Kyle shut down his own hopeful thoughts. The universe had been cruel to him lately, he doubted it would cut him a break anytime soon. 

Anxiety swelled in his chest, different from the kind he felt when the stranger with Scott’s phone had called him. This, in Kyle’s opinion, was much, much worse. He would actually prefer that the creep call him again, instead of having to deal with Stan Marsh’s insufferable ego for the next two weeks. Yesterday, he saw himself managing through the week just fine. But now? Now, Kyle didn’t even think he’d make it out alive. 

He didn’t even notice how long he’d been spaced out, until Ike had disappeared up the stairs, reappearing in his school clothes. His little brother clapped his hands in front of Kyle’s face, the redhead jumping from the loud noise. 

“You’re gonna be late, stupid.” Ike said, zipping up his backpack after cramming it full of notebooks and binders. 

Kyle looked down at his plate, the food going cold and losing refrigerator life the longer it sat out. He cursed a second time, jolting up from his seat. He rushed into the hallway, sliding across the hardwood floor as he made a sharp turn for the stairs. Before he could even take a step, three banging knocks sounded on the front door. Kyle froze right where he stood, squeezing his eyes shut and silently praying. If there was any deity in the world capable of granting wishes, he needed them now. 

Reluctantly, he turned around and stepped towards the door, gripping the handle and pulling it open, hoping it was Mrs. Davis. But he should have known better, Mrs. Davis was a polite knocker. 

He caught Stan Marsh on his front porch, scuffed converse sneakers digging into the aged welcome mat on the floor. His fist was raised up, ready to knock a second time if the door wasn’t answered. He wore his green and white letterman jacket over a brown one, layering up as the October weather began to hit the air. A beanie sat on top of his raven-colored strands, the same beanie which Kyle always saw him in. It was probably the same as Cartman’s ratty hoodie — musty, old, and in desperate need of a deep cleaning. 

Stan let his arm fall the moment he locked eyes with Kyle. He gave the redhead a once over, Kyle forgetting that he was still dressed in his pajamas. Stan clearly noticed this, probably annoyed at realizing he’d have to wait longer than expected. Kyle didn’t give a shit. Now that he knew this, he planned to purposely take as much time as he wanted to get ready, just to piss him off. It would certainly give him a small sense of victory during this catastrophe of a morning. 

With a deadpan dominating his features, Stan folded his arms over his chest. His letterman jacket crinkled around his form, loose over his body. 

“Five minutes.” He grumbled. 

Kyle sneered at him, slamming the door in his face. 

Chapter Text

When Kyle opened his front door again, he noticed Stan’s ugly jeep taking up half of his driveway. The engine was running, and the aforementioned jockstrap was sitting in the driver’s seat, bobbing his head to music that Kyle could hear from where he stood on his front porch. He hadn’t even gotten in the car yet and he was already pissed off. He figured that’s the least of what he would feel being in close quarters with his enemy. Maybe the universe would bless him with a murder charge that morning, too. 

Kyle rolled his eyes as he stepped off his porch, making sure the door was locked before rounding the left side of Stan’s car. The fucker hadn’t even looked up, even when Kyle tried to open the door handle and failed. He tried again, tugging back on the lever furiously, but it didn’t budge. He tossed up his arms in frustration, letting them fall to his sides as Stan had yet to notice his dilemma. 

“Hello?!” He yelled, which finally seemed to work. Stan turned just as Kyle grabbed the handle again, pressing a button on his side to unlock the doors. Kyle climbed up into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door behind him. 

Stan buckled in his seatbelt, nonchalantly side-eyeing the redhead. “Slam my door again and you will not be waking up tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, please. If we have to do this every fucking day then dying would be a blessing.” Kyle snapped, strapping his own seatbelt across his chest as his folded arms followed suit. 

A momentary beat of silence passed through the vehicle, neither of the two wanting anything to do with the other. Kyle shot a quick glance to the boy on his left, who had his eyes closed in what he recognized to be a silent prayer. Praying was probably a good idea, in his case. Kyle prayed that Stan didn’t pull some jackass stunt and get them both killed on the drive to school. He wouldn’t be surprised if Stan floored the gas pedal down the street of Kyle’s own neighborhood, as an additional ‘fuck you’ to him like this arrangement wasn’t enough of an inconvenience. He was certainly the type to be petty like that. Not that Kyle was complaining, since being petty was something he could do much better than him. 

The condensation on the windows was beginning to fog up the glass again. Kyle reached for the buttons on the center console, instinctively trying to turn the heat on, only to have his arm smacked away by Stan’s own. He recoiled, and although his hand had been guarded with a glove, he could feel his skin sting beneath the fabric. 

“Wh—“

“Here’s how this is gonna work, Broflovski.” Stan cut him off harshly, twisting towards him. He kept one hand clenched tightly across the top of his steering wheel, the other draped over the arm rest between their seats. “One; no touching anything. Two—“

“How am I supposed to get out of the fucking car if I can’t touch anything?” Kyle barked, wondering just who the hell this boy thought he was talking to him like that. Although, he supposed he couldn’t expect anything less from Stan Marsh, after all this kind of tone was used in nearly every conversation they’d had since they were ten.

Stan glared back at him, hard. “Don’t be a smartass. You can touch the door handle and nothing else.” He said, taking Kyle’s lack of response as an invitation to keep going. “Two; no talking.”

Kyle bristled. “Excuse me—“

He was forced to flinch away when Stan held up his palm, silencing his protests. Kyle gaped in astonishment, quite frankly surprised with himself that he’d been able to hold back from lunging at the boy in all the time they’d been sitting in the car. If his patience were running any thinner than it already was, Stan’s face would be through the driver’s side window by now.

“See, that right there? Violation of rule number two. No talking means no talking, I don’t care about anything you have to say.” Stan snapped, his tone laced with malice. 

Kyle stared at him, unable to suppress the incredulous chuckle that escaped his mouth. He knew that Stan Marsh was full of himself, probably more so than anyone else in their small town, but the level of egotism that Stan possessed was unfathomable. The fucker couldn’t even go five minutes without ordering someone around. And hell itself would have to freeze over before Kyle let it happen to him. 

Stan continued his witless rant of expectations. “Three; under no circumstances am I driving you anywhere other than to and from school. I am not your personal escort, if you want to go to gay clubs you’re gonna have to walk.” 

Kyle’s eyebrows furrowed so quickly it was almost painful. “I do not go to gay cl— “

Stan, once again, rudely cut him off. “I’m sorry, am I speaking gibberish? Canadian, perhaps? Do you understand the concept of not talking?” He spoke down to the redhead as if he were a small child. “One more word and I’m removing you from the vehicle.” 

Kyle crossed his arms again, a daring smile curving his lips. “And I’m sure your dad would love it when I tell him how I had to walk to school in single digit temperatures.” 

Granted, this was an exaggeration, yet his point was seen either way. Stan froze, his tanned complexion fading with a tint of paleness. The two of them then descended into an impromptu staring contest, a collision of green and blue both stubborn and ruthless. It was eventual, yet inevitable, for Stan to avert his gaze first. He was the one driving, after all. And as much as Kyle would love to see the look of defeat on his face, them being late to school wouldn’t solve any of their problems. 

Still, he relished in the small victory, exaggerating his features with fake sympathy. “Aw, I found a loophole.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Stan grumbled, moving the gear shift to reverse.

Stan parked his jeep in his designated spot, ripping out his keys and gathering his belongings. Kyle followed, and the two seemed to be in a race to find out who could leave the car quicker. Much to Stan’s pleasure, the ride to school itself had been mostly silent, save for the soft tune of his music playlist vibrating through the stereo. He avoided looking in the redhead’s direction at all, only doing so when checking for cars at stop signs. Kyle had been facing the window the entire time, arms folded with a grumpy pout plastered over his features. 

Contrary to his popular belief, he could actually relate to Kyle on that. Stan would’ve rather been anywhere else in the world than sitting next to the person he had hated since he was ten. It was awkward, and annoying, and Stan could’ve sworn that the universe slowed time down just to fuck with him. At this point he should have expected that much. 

Despite their rushed movements, both boys had exited the jeep at the same time, shutting their doors in unison. Stan winced as his muscles rejected the strain. He looked down at his stomach, frowning as if he could see the bruises through his clothing. He knew that that was impossible, that it was only his own mindless panic wreaking havoc on him, but that didn’t stop him from feeling so exposed. Randy had actually been sober when Stan came home from Tolkien’s house, but he barely gave him time to explain before wailing on him. It was one of the worser days, where Randy had all the time in the world, and plenty of energy that needed an outlet. He’d thrown Stan to the ground before he could even close the front door, driving his foot into his stomach and sides. Stan had learned by then not to give much of a reaction, only gritting his teeth as pain soared through his body over and over again. He remembered Sparky barking through the glass of the sliding door, watching the scene unfold from the backyard. 

Stan had passed out on the floor by the stairs, only waking again when his mother yelled his name — she wanted him to take the trash out. A four letter sentence, four letter command. Sharon always turned a blind eye to Randy’s abusive tendencies, as long as she wasn’t caught in the crossfire, she didn’t care. It had taken her a few years, but eventually Sharon developed her own violent dispositions. Stan resented her for that. He resented them both, for failing to see the error of their ways for parenting, and for putting him through so much misery even when he was still just a kid. Half of his earlier teenage years had been spent wishing he was someone else. They were wasted, something that everyone around him cherished but something that Stan never got to have. He had been robbed of a good life the second he was born. 

The parking lot around them was already crowded, students wandering towards the school around their own vehicles. Stan could have sworn he felt every pair of eyes trained on him. Suddenly uncomfortable, he rolled his shoulder back and fixed the strap of his backpack, keeping a careful note of who had seen him. The last thing he wanted were any rumors to start flying around about him and Kyle. 

When the redhead rounded the hood of the jeep, he paused, deadpanning towards the quarterback. “What time should I meet you back here?”

Stan barely gave him the time of day, matching Kyle’s bored tone. “I have practice, so you’re gonna have to entertain yourself until I’m done.”

He reeled back, eyebrows clasping together with annoyance. “Well it would have been nice to know that, you ass!” 

Stan rolled his eyes, completely and utterly uninterested in the conversation. “What difference would it have made if I told you or not? You still have to wait.”

“I would have liked to have a general idea of how my afternoon was going to go!” Kyle all but yelled in response. “What the hell am I supposed to do for an hour and a half after fourth period?!” 

But Stan was already walking away. He didn’t have time for Kyle’s bullshit. “Figure it out!”

He sighed when Kyle released an agitated groan, opting to ignore the redhead’s angry mumbling which followed soon after. He strolled up the doors of the school, stoically thanking a random girl for holding the door for him. 

The hallways were rowdy, especially in light of everything that had happened over the weekend. Stan could look at every face he passed by and easily determine who had a hangover, and who was overwhelmed with grief. He carried himself with an unreadable expression on purpose, wanting nothing but to avoid any sort of conversation about Scott. He was well aware that today, that might just prove to be a little more difficult than usual, judging by the fact that Principal Victoria was holding an assembly just for him. He had no idea what was to come of it, Stan expected something similar to the other ones he’d been to, a boring lecture with boring people, with the exception of a half-assed memorial for Scott. He wanted to skip, but he realized that that would only make him look like an ass in front of his friends. Half of him didn’t even care, already coming up with excuses and lies to use when asked where he’d been. 

Stan ignored all the knowing looks worn by his peers, all the silent pity in regards to the tragic death of his close friend. He inhaled sharply as he reached up to open his locker, the pain in his ribs returning tenfold. His medication was close to wearing off, the pills he’d snagged from his mother’s nightstand before bed. He had dumped four tablets of Acetaminophen in his palm, swallowing dry over 2000 milligrams of pain reliever. Needless to say, he’d slept like a rock. But now the pain was back, raw and unforgiving. 

Stan shoved his notebooks and folders into his locker, gradually making his backpack easier to carry. He needed extra weight on his injured shoulders like he needed Kyle Broflovski’s sour attitude. He didn’t. 

Once his backpack was as light as he could get it to be, Stan closed the metal door and turned. An unexpected face met him on the other side, making him slam back against the lockers, stunned and frantic.

“Jesus, Wendy—“ He breathed, pressing his palm over his chest in an effort to calm his racing heart. 

Wendy leaned against the lockers with a cocked hip. Her smirk and folded arms said it all, Stan was in for a shitshow. 

“So. I hear you had quite the night Friday night.”

He shut his eyes and repressed a groan. He really did not want to have this conversation right now, he was sore and irritated, and quite frankly on the verge of punching someone. “Wendy—“

“No, no, please. Let me finish.” Wendy said, and Stan could recognize that tone from miles away — she was pissed. “I think I get it now.”

There was no way he was getting out of this. Whatever Wendy was pissed about wouldn’t just be swept under the rug. Stan had no choice but to play along. “Get what?” 

“That you’re a pompous son of a bitch who uses people to boost your ego, and when you’re done with them you throw them out like trash.” Wendy’s words spilled off her tongue as if she’d been rehearsing their conversation. “Or, you know, whore yourself to every girl you think could give you even the slightest bit of an erection.” 

Stan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Woah, Wends. A little harsh, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, you want harsh?” Wendy growled, shoving her palm against Stan’s chest and pinning him to the wall of lockers. He could easily overpower her and break free, but that wouldn’t end well for either of them.

“How about this, then; I am done letting you play with my feelings and treat me like your personal booty call. No matter how popular you are, no matter how important you think you are, you won’t be able to step on people forever, Stan. One day, you’ll get a wake up call. And you better hope that I won’t be your alarm, because unlike some people, I won’t make you forget it.” 

“Okay! Okay, okay.” Stan surrendered, lifting his hands in a placating manner. Wendy backed off, face twisted into a scowl. He was cornered, with very limited options. He decided that apologizing was better than turning and walking away. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” 

Wendy gaped at him for a moment, before bursting into laughter. The girl had almost doubled over, nearly cackling and drawing attention to the two in the middle of the hallway. 

“Oh, my god!” She breathed, hand over her heart just as Stan’s was not long ago. “You are so fucking daft it actually baffles me!” 

He cocked a brow, now utterly confused at their interaction. “What—“

“You slept with Heidi and you didn’t think I’d find out?!” Wendy’s voice was bordering the level of volume that Stan would have to cringe at. “Who do you think was the first person she told when she woke up?!” 

Oh.

Oh. 

Stan’s jaw fell open the moment the realization hit him. The brunette girl with smudged makeup he’d woken up next to at Tolkien’s house. That was Heidi. Stan didn’t even recognize her! God, how could he have been so stupid?! Of course of all the girls he could’ve seduced at the party, he managed to get with one of Wendy’s closest friends. Just his fucking luck. Wendy had every reason to be pissed, to feel betrayed. 

“Do you even care that you hurt me?” She asked, dialing down her tone to match her saddened expression. “Do you care at all?”

Stan sighed. He felt small at that moment, unguarded and vulnerable. His emotions were laid out in front of him, like a table of weapons, and if he chose the wrong one there would be consequences. He’d never meant to upset Wendy. He knew the root of all his mistakes sprouted from the same tree, drowning himself in alcohol each time he felt like he was trapped. He also knew that he wouldn’t have been able to resist his own temptations even when he was sober. It was an endless, repetitive cycle. Stan was destined to hurt those around him one way or another, it was only a matter of time before he’d end up completely alone. He knew that, too.

But Wendy… Wendy was there for him. While the two had been everything other than an official couple, Stan found himself undeniably drawn to her, and not just for her looks. Wendy was smart, kind, and loyal to the ones she loved. Stan was comfortable on her good side, even more so when Wendy’s lips were locked onto his. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wished for them to pursue something. But he knew it was a stupid idea. He knew the outcome would only worsen their relationship in the long run, but he couldn’t help it. He was selfish. He craved attention, something his parents hadn’t given him in years. Wendy had done just that and more, managing to not only be Stan’s favorite person in his life, but the only person who cared. Just like Scott. 

He hadn’t even noticed his vision blurring until it was too late, until a tear rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the floor. Wendy perked up, hovering over him immediately.

“Oh, Stan. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— with Scott— I— I’m sorry.” She stuttered, cupping his face with her hands, worry dominating her doe brown eyes. 

“No, Wends, I’m sorry. Okay, I— I don’t know what got into me.” Stan replied, gently grabbing hold of her wrists. 

But he did. He did know. Stan was being manipulative. If he didn’t have Wendy, he wouldn’t have anyone. He was being selfish. He hurt her without thinking twice about it, and while he was hungover after getting laid, she had been oblivious. It wasn’t fair. Stan wasn’t being fair. Wendy was digging herself a deeper hole just by doing something as simple as talking to him. She couldn’t help him, no one could. He was stringing her along like a dog. It wasn’t fair.

She smiled sadly, her sweetness filtering out under her angry guise. “You’re grieving, Stan. You couldn’t justify your actions even if you wanted to. I should have kept that in mind. I’m sorry.” 

Stan shook his head almost violently, internally begging Wendy to just walk away. He couldn’t, however, when a loud crackle of the intercom speakers sounded through the hallway. 

“All students, please report to the auditorium. All students, please report to the auditorium.” 

They’d timed the announcement almost perfectly with the bell schedule, the shrill ringing noise following immediately after the intercom turned off. Stan pulled Wendy’s hands from his face, holding them between their bodies. 

She sighed, stepping away and folding her arms around herself. “We’ll talk after school, okay?”

Stan winced, instantly reminded of his little rideshare arrangement. Not that he cared if Kyle had to wait an extra hour, but he couldn’t risk the redhead reporting anything negative back to his father. “Actually, I— I can’t. I have something to do after practice.” 

He didn’t miss the flicker of disappointment which shined in Wendy’s eyes. “Oh.” She said, visibly slumping, but keeping her composure. “Okay. Then, we’ll talk tonight. Do you want to grab dinner?” 

“Sure. That’d be great, Wends.” Stan agreed, allowing himself to genuinely smile. “Sizzler’s? I’ll pick you up at six.”

Wendy nodded. “Great.” 

Stan watched her walk away, heading in the direction of the auditorium with the rest of the students. He figured he’d give her a head start, avoiding any and all awkwardness that was to follow their brief conversation. 

After waiting almost a full ten seconds, Stan took a couple steps forward, his stride gradually slowing the closer he got to the auditorium. The feeling was abrupt, yet noticeable above all others that hounded his being. Something churned in his gut, dreadful and foreign. Suddenly, an assembly dedicated to his deceased best friend was the last thing he wanted to sit through. 

He eyed the boys’ bathrooms that were just down the hall, turning and making a beeline for the door. 

Kyle could see the whole room from where he sat, on the second level of the auditorium facing the stage. Loud, incomprehensible chatter filled the space, each unique voice bouncing and echoing off the elongated walls. There was a single lectern on the floor of the stage, a microphone attached to the top for speeches. He got comfortable in his padded chair, knowing it would be at least an hour before he could stand again. 

Kenny turned to him from his left, leaning down to make sure his voice was heard over all the others. “How was your drive with the oh so charming quarterback this morning?” 

Kyle groaned, clasping his eyebrows together in embarrassment. He lolled his head back, having no desire to clarify on the subject. “Hell on earth, actually. It was ten times worse than I thought it would be.”

Kenny smiled, and if Kyle didn’t know any better, he’d say the blonde found his anguish to be a sick source of entertainment. “Well, what happened?” 

He crossed his arms, a certain sourness in his tone when recalling that morning’s events. “He basically gave me a rule book on how he expects the next two weeks to go. It was fucking demeaning. Even mourning, Stan Marsh still finds every possible way to be insufferable.” 

Kenny shifted in his seat, clicking his tongue. “Gotta hand it to the jocks.”

Kyle continued ranting. “I shouldn’t even say mourning, the guy was completely fine for just losing one of his best friends. He didn’t even mention Scott once.” 

“Did you honestly expect him to?” Kenny asked, an amused chuckle lacing his words. 

Kyle fidgeted with the hems of his sweater. “Well… no. The sun would have explode before Stan willingly admits to being sad, but it wouldn’t hurt to just— I don’t know, show some fucking compassion? Some empathy? I mean for fuck’s sake he’s acting the same way he always does! As if the last three days weren’t absolute hell for us!” 

“Everyone has their way of grieving, dude.” Kenny shrugged, which was just the absolute wrong thing to say, especially to the raging red fire that sat next to him. 

“Why the hell are you defending him?!” Kyle demanded, tone harsh and accusing. 

“I’m not, dude! I swear.” Kenny instantly protested, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I just— I know a depressed guy when I see one.”

Kyle relaxed, as soon as Kenny’s words clicked with him. He didn’t want to let his mind go on a tangent and recall each time Kenny turned to things far worse than therapy to deal with his issues. Although he was better now, there would be no forgetting how many close calls the blonde had. Kyle decided instead to just slightly steer the topic.

“Yeah. I guess you are pretty good at spotting sad sacks of shit. That’s how you befriended fatass, isn’t it?” He replied, beaming when Kenny’s laugh filled his ears. 

“Befriended is a strong word.”

A beat of silence fell over them, their focus wandering to different parts of the auditorium while the chatter around them only picked up. The only thing Kyle knew about this assembly was that Principal Victoria would be mentioning Scott. Now, how she’ll manage to drag the topic of his murdered friend on for an hour and a half was beyond him, but she was damn good at doing so. Kyle could recall most of the hour long assemblies he’d attended during previous years of high school, only a few blocked out by his brain for being too tedious to deserve a memory. They’d all consisted of typical informative categories — anti-bullying, social media, cyber security… they were all so repetitive. It was topics that needed to be taught to younger audiences, people who hadn’t yet had the chance of experiencing the online presence. To teach a bunch of high schoolers shit they already knew was just a waste of time. 

Much like the rest of this assembly probably would be. 

“Check it out, Victoria’s got index cards.” Kenny pointed out, gesturing to their principal off the side of the stage. Ms. Victoria stood halfway behind a curtain, flipping through small papers in her hands. 

Kyle sighed, shaking his head. 

“Talking points, for an assembly dedicated to our dead friend.” He observed, rolling his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth. “How fucking insensitive.” 

Kyle noticed movement off to the other side of the stage. He flicked his eyes across the room, landing on two police officers standing near the curtain. One of them he’d recognized to be the same officer who questioned him in Victoria’s office, back when everyone thought Scott was just missing. 

Behind him then sounded two faint beeps, Kyle recognizing the sound almost instantaneously. He’d taken too many videos for his parents on family vacations to not know the sound of a video recording. Kenny reacted first, snapping his head to face the rest of their group. 

“Will you turn that off, Cartman?!” He demanded, watching in disgust while the brunette held his phone horizontally up to the stage. 

Cartman scoffed, moving the device around the room to capture the crowded auditorium. The lighting was horrible, dim yellow hues shining down over the seats. It was anything but ideal for a good shot, but that didn’t stop the unrelenting boy. “No way, Kinny. If there’s a serial killer in South Park, the world’s gonna know!”

At this, Tweek jumped up from his seat. “S-Serial Killer?! Here?! Agh!!” 

Butters reached his arms out, grabbing a hold of Tweek’s elbows and attempting to settle him. Reluctantly, Tweek sat back down, still breathing heavily with wide blown eyes. 

Kyle quickly intervened, having to shut down the rumor before Tweek spiraled into a breakdown. “Don’t listen to him, Tweek, there’s no serial killer.”

“And how do you know, Kahl?” Cartman posed, still scanning his camera around the room. “Scott’s death was pretty brutal, you think that was just a one time thing?”

Kyle grasped at the ends of his sweater sleeves, refraining from spilling out all his current thoughts. There was a half truth to Cartman’s speculations, Scott’s killer was still on the loose, and there was a possibility that they could strike again. Still, it wasn’t the best idea to cause panic. Freaking out his friends while they were still reeling from the loss of one of their own was probably the worst thing he could do.

“I’m pretty sure serial translates to more than one, Cartman. And unless you know something I don’t, only one person has died.” Kyle said, narrowing his eyes. 

Cartman shrugged one shoulder. “So far.”

Kyle felt a flicker of anger rise in his chest. “You know, if you want to cause panic so bad, why don’t you remind everyone how you took three months off in eighth grade to go to anger management? And got kicked out?” 

Cartman lowered his phone, his jaw dropping in betrayed shock. He bristled. “You shut your fucking mouth, you dirty Jew!” 

Kenny rolled his eyes at Cartman’s insensitive attitude. “Unbelievable.” He grumbled, turning back around the same time Kyle did.

Just then, the microphone attached to the lectern screeched with brief feedback, as Principal Victoria tapped the device with her finger. Once concluding that it was working properly, she leaned closer. 

“Uh— Good morning, students.” She greeted, her voice cascading across the auditorium and silencing the chatter. On her right stood Mr. Mackey, the school guidance counselor, and on her left stood PC, the assistant principal. His arms were crossed, sunglasses shielding the sternness of his gaze. Kyle almost forgot that PC had been the one to discover Scott’s body. His heart ached for the man, and how much of a gruesome sight that must have been. 

“Thank you all for your participation. We know that—“ She glanced down at the notecards, which were now hidden behind the angle of the lectern. “—That we’ve recently been exposed to a tragedy involving one of our students, senior and football player Scott Malkinson. Our hearts go out to Scott’s parents and family, as I can’t imagine the amount of pain, and grief, that they are going through.”

Kyle watched his principal with mild interest. He could hear the hesitation in her voice, it was clear that she was not equipped to speak on topics like this, especially since it was the first time in their town that something like this had happened to a teenager. She was nervous. 

“That being said,” Victoria sifted through her cards again. “As your principal, you are all my top priority. It is my job to ensure your safety and education whilst inside these walls. Which is why I have decided to establish optional grief counseling for anyone who may need assistance in this trying time. Your counselors, Mr. Mackey—“ She gestured to the man on her right, who held up a hand to the crowd in greeting. “And PC—“ The vice principal gave a quick nod. “Will have their doors open at all hours of the school day, may you need someone to talk to.” 

Kyle found himself shaking his head with disbelief. Instead of internalizing his concerns, he leaned over to Kenny. 

“Just how many people do they really think need this shit? Half of this school didn’t even know Scott, not like we did.” He whispered, his chest swelling with disgust on his friend’s behalf. “People are just going to use it as an excuse to get out of class.”

“Maybe.” Kenny shrugged, keeping his voice low to not draw attention to himself. “Or, you could be wrong. 

Kyle furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

Kenny glanced at him with a knowing look, reluctant to elaborate. He almost expected Kenny to leave it there, the conversation hanging dry in the air like clothing on a line. Until, of course, he found his words. 

“He was a likable dude, Ky. Didn’t have any enemies, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were people other than us who’re upset about him.”

Kyle turned his head forward, disagreeing with the blonde’s opinion. “Sure doesn’t seem like it. Everyone talks about him like he’s just some poor kid on the news. They’ll forget about him by the end of the week.”

Kenny recoiled with surprise. “Kyle, you shouldn’t say shit like that. You have no idea what other people are going through.” 

“Tell me I’m wrong then, Kenny!” He tossed his arms up in defeat, facing the blonde again. “Tell me you don’t see it too, how easily people have already moved on. I mean for god’s sake, we went to a party! The day after he died!” 

Kenny sighed. “Dude, Tolkien Black throws parties for every occasion. What makes you think death would be an exception?”

Kyle frowned, looking away. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” Kenny rolled his eyes, the action hidden from the dim lighting in the auditorium. “Look, I said it before and I’ll say it again. Everyone has their way of grieving. We can’t judge people for not knowing how to handle this kinda’ stuff.” 

Kyle shut his mouth, and no, it was not because Kenny was right. Again. It was because he couldn’t really wrap his head around it. It was true, different people had different methods of coping. But how did it make sense for them to celebrate? Throw a party? They should be miserable. They should be angry. Why the fuck wasn’t anyone angry?

“—you. In conclusion, and in light of this new program, I am declaring that grief counseling be considered mandatory for the South Park High senior class.” Victoria’s words had snapped Kyle from his thoughts, much like every other student who had zoned out for the speech. 

The auditorium immediately erupted into chaos, as the student body not-so-kindly expressed their displeasure for Victoria’s new rule. Numerous people on the first level had stood up from their chairs, throwing crumpled papers at the stage. Only half of them made the distance, the other half falling to the floor. 

“They can’t do that!” Someone yelled. 

“How is that fair?!” Another screeched. 

“You guys are assholes!” 

Kyle and Kenny had jumped at the volume of the last voice, so close to their row. That was also because it belonged to the heavyweight boy sitting behind them. They whipped around just in time to see Cartman plop back down into his seat, still holding up his phone with a look of fury in his eyes. He noticed them staring.

“What?! It’s fucking true!” He seethed. 

Kyle knew better than to start anything now, any further altercations and he might just be getting a detention along with anyone else in the room who had raised their voice. He faced forward again, watching as PC took Victoria’s place at the lectern. The crowd booed loudly and obnoxiously, failing to cease even when the microphone produced more feedback. 

“Hey! Everyone, settle the hell down!” PC screamed, his voice booming through the speakers like they were watching a concert. The silence that followed had been deafening, nearly sending a shiver down Kyle’s spine. 

“I know you are all upset. Okay, I’m upset! But that does not give you the right to disrespect our authority! Ms. Victoria and I are working hard to help you students get back on track, and we will not tolerate any kind of hateful behavior. Is that understood?!”

Kyle skimmed his eyes over the crowd, over the faces he could see even with the dark lighting. Each expression he’d glanced at was a mask of regret, guilt felt for their assistant principal and the things the man had witnessed. He supposed fear had also played an important factor, even if that hadn’t been PC’s intention. 

“That will be all. You are dismissed.” PC said, the three magic words that, under different circumstances, would normally have the students cheering in relief. 

But now, the auditorium was so silent Kyle could hear a pin drop. It remained that way even when they stood up from their seats. 

Cartman shut his locker door with a slam. The sudden noise caused a reaction out of Tweek, the boy yelping and retracting his limbs into himself. Butters was there to calm him down. 

“I mean, I really don’t fucking get it!” The brunette boy had been on a raving tangent since they had stepped back out into the hallway. “Why on god’s green fucking earth would they make this shit mandatory?! If people are that fucking depressed they can just go to therapy! Why is that such a problem?!”

“Well, some people can’t afford therapy, Eric.” Butters supplied, hooking his arm around Tweek’s. Physical contact seemed like the only way to settle the anxious boy. 

“Oh please Butters, it’s not that hard to find a cheap shrink. There are probably millions alone living in this fucking state.” Cartman said, riding his backpack up his shoulders. The straps were incredibly uneven, yet he made no effort to fix them. 

“Cartman, you need to get a grip.” Kenny threw in, leaning his back against the wall next to Kyle’s locker. “This is about people who actually need counseling, not pricks like you who take it for granted.”

“Oh, well fuck me for growing up priveliged, I guess.” Cartman bit back, tossing his arms up and letting them fall roughly against his sides. “If only a few people need counseling, why the hell can’t they go on their own? Why do they have to drag me into it?”

“This isn't about you, fat boy!” Kenny yelled, jutting out a finger to point at him. “It’s hard for some people to ask for help, let alone admit they need it.”

“And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Kinny?” Cartman taunted, well aware of the dangerous line he was about to cross. 

Kenny stilled, tightening his jaw. His fists curled in on themselves, fingernails digging into his palms and forming crescent indents. “Cartman. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” The brunette pushed, cocking his head to the side in a teasing manner. “Don’t bring up how you managed to fuck up killing yourself not once, but twice? I’d say that’s pretty fucking pathetic, even for a po’boy redneck like—“

Cartman wasn’t able to finish his sentence, Kenny lunged forward before he could. In the matter of a second, Kenny’s hands were wrapped around Cartman’s throat with a violent amount of force, squeezing around his windpipe. Kyle had been too busy organizing his locker to participate in the conversation, up until the loud slam of Kenny shoving Cartman against the metal wall caught his attention. 

“Jesus christ, Kenny!” He yelled, turning and immediately rushing to grab his arms. With the help of Tweek and Butters, they were able to quickly separate the two. 

Cartman coughed and sputtered as soon as he was able to breathe again. Butters hovered his hands over his back while he doubled over, heaving in oxygen. Kyle pushed Kenny back to his original spot, against the row of lockers opposite to the other side of the hall. 

“Are— are you fucking crazy?!” Cartman wheezed out, standing up straight and rubbing at his neck with his palm. 

“Why the fuck would you bring that up, fatass?! Are you crazy?!” Kyle yelled, instantly taking Kenny’s side. While he loved the momentary silence that filled the hallway without Cartman’s grating voice, it wouldn’t do them any good to lose someone else so soon. 

“He almost killed me!” Cartman waved an accusing finger towards the blonde, who looked as if he were about to explode. 

“And I’d do it again!” Kenny shouted, taking a warning step which Cartman mirrored with a backwards one. Kyle grabbed Kenny’s elbow and held him still, in case he really did do it again. 

The tension was then suddenly interrupted by deep ‘ahem’. The boys whipped their heads towards the new noise, laying eyes on two unfamiliar men. They were dressed in suits, too formal to be teachers, which had immediately piqued Kyle’s interest. The man on the right was tall, spiky red hair laying a neat mess on top of his head. A drastic contrast to the other, a shorter man with grey curls. 

“Who the hell are you assholes?” Cartman asked, a crude greeting but a greeting nonetheless. 

The man on the right was the first to answer, digging into his pocket to pull something out. He snapped open his wallet to flash a badge, the other man following his movements. 

“Detective Harrison Yates. This is my partner, Detective Mitch Murphy. We’re here because we want to have a word with you all.” 

The men watched as everyone exchanged the same look. Kyle knew what this was about, he was sure his friends knew as well. But that didn’t stop him from asking the obvious. 

“About what?"

Detective Yates snapped his gaze towards him. 

“Just routine questioning.” He replied. “We’re speaking with every student who was close with Mr. Malkinson, and from what we’ve gathered, that includes you five.” 

An uncomfortable silence flooded the hallway. Kyle could feel Kenny’s muscles tense under his hand, which he quickly pulled back to his chest. Tweek looked paler than the white walls themselves, and Butters wasn’t far behind. 

Yates clapped his hands together, scanning over the group. “Great, so…” His eyes landed back on Kyle. “How about you first?”

“Me?” Kyle repeated, pointing a finger at himself. 

Yates nodded, flicking his chin in the direction of the nearest classroom. “It won’t take long. Unless you’d prefer we go down to the station—“

“No!” Kyle curtly interrupted. “No, um. This is fine. I can do it now.” 

Yates smiled, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. “Perfect. You can follow me.” 

Both detectives entered through the door to a music room, Murphy holding it open for Kyle to follow. The redhead gave a quick glance to Kenny, who lifted his eyebrows with a knowing look. Kyle could almost hear the blonde’s voice in his head. 

‘You promised.’

Chapter Text

“So. Kyle, right? Broflovski?” 

Yates ran his finger along the strings of an acoustic guitar, one that had been attached to a stand and likely left behind by a student. The noise strummed out a soft and simple melodic notion, the instrument tuned to fine perfection. It reminded Kyle of his phase back in freshman year, he’d gone as far as buying his own guitar from a local shop, only for it to collect dust in his closet six months after doing so. He’d only wanted to learn because of his favorite song at the time, he couldn’t remember what it was anymore. It was sad, so many people told Kyle that he had potential, but he had no interest in pursuing anything related to music. He wasn’t sure what his calling was, but he wasn’t rushing to figure it out. He’d never even really given it much thought to begin with, considering how much time he had to find out. But now he was in his senior year of high school, the threat of graduating and not knowing what to do with himself was lurking around the corner. 

Gerald had always hinted at wanting Kyle to follow in his footsteps, go into law school and expand the Broflovski legacy. But every time he tried to picture himself in a courtroom, defending someone just because they paid him to, he couldn’t. Kyle knew full well that he could never handle it, being responsible for keeping someone out of prison. It was a lot of weight to carry, weight that his father had hidden well over the years, talking of his work as if it were a dream. Kyle could remember the way Gerald’s eyes lit up, and the way he emphasized with his hands every time he was given the chance to discuss it. It was clear that the man was passionate about his job, something that Kyle could not see for himself if he went down the same road. He didn’t have much time left to find his calling, that pressure was enough to deal with. 

And on top of that, he was being interrogated for Scott Malkinson’s murder. 

Murphy, Yates’ partner, was standing by the classroom door, on guard as if he were expecting Kyle to get up and run away. He supposed that that was a fair takeaway, after all the most common sign of lying was anxiousness. Kyle had to refrain himself from shaking his knee or picking at his fingers, scared to death that one little slip up would have him in cuffs faster than he could try to defend himself. If that were the case, then being a lawyer could come in handy. 

“Yeah.” He replied, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

Yates shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks, turning his attention away from the instruments. He strolled around the front of the room without looking at Kyle, and Kyle couldn’t help but think of it as some sort of intimidation tactic. 

“What were you doing the night of Tuesday, September 25th?” He asked, fixating on the clock that ticked loudly as the hands moved.

Kyle took a deep internal breath. “I was at home with my little brother Ike.”

“Were your parents home?” Yates furthered.

Kyle shook his head. “They were out with their friends. At a bar, I think.”

The detective nodded along slowly, shifting his eyes to something else in the room. Murphy kept a firm gaze on Kyle, fully alert to any potential altercations.

“How long have you known Scott?” Yates asked.

Kyle swallowed again, trying desperately to maintain an even tone with his voice. “…Seven years, I think? We met in sixth grade.” 

“How did you become friends?”

Kyle recalled as many middle school memories as he could, without the worst one sticking out. He purposely avoided any afterthoughts on that day, instead focusing on a random afternoon during the month of April. 

“He bought my lunch.” Kyle said, smiling fondly at the memory. “He was behind me in line. I was a dollar short, and my mom hadn’t renewed the funds for my account yet, so he pulled out his wallet and gave me money.”

Kyle chuckled to himself, remembering how cool he had thought it was that Scott had his own wallet. It was Star Wars themed, colored black with galaxies etched into the fabric, the movie’s logo printed on the front and back. It was actually the very first thing they had discussed, after Scott had essentially paid for his meal they walked to a table together, ranting about how unorthodox Attack of the Clones had been. They had both agreed that it was easily the worst installment of the series, for horrendously bad acting. Not to mention the writing, the storyline barely having a notable presence in the Star Wars universe. 

“Would you say that you two were close? Did you ever fight?” Yates continued his interrogation. 

“Well with all due respect sir, what friends never fight?” Kyle said with a melancholy tone, lazily shrugging his shoulder. “We were pretty close, yeah, and when we did fight we would always make up. But we’re guys, you know? Fighting is kind of our thing.”

Yates smiled at that, a silent agreement. He turned around, finally facing Kyle. “Did you two fight often, then? What would you fight about?”

Kyle wrapped his arms around himself, his brown crewneck sweater doing close to nothing in regards to warmth. The music room was infamous for being cold, which made it one of the most popular hang out spots in the spring. 

“No, not often.” He answered truthfully. “Most of the time it would just be us disagreeing on something. We were both pretty stubborn.” 

Yates nodded, rolling his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth. He paused for a moment, likely thinking of another question. 

“Disagreements like what?” He asked, pulling his arms from his pockets to cross over his chest. “Were you two ever violent with each other?”

Kyle promptly shook his head. “No, never. Scott and I would walk away if it ever came to that point. It would usually be over something stupid. You know, like… which actor would have been a better choice for Superman, stuff like that.” 

Yates glanced over Kyle, and the redhead shrunk. He froze under the man’s gaze, conscious of not making any movements, especially nervous tics. His muscles tightened and his eyes dried up, unblinking until he was sure he was in the clear. 

Yates began moving around the room again. “Tell me about the last time you spoke to Scott.”

Kyle released a breath he only then just realized he was holding, the air flowing through his nostrils disguised as a contemplating sigh. 

“…Last Sunday, I’m pretty sure.” He said, emerald irises flicking across the room as he recounted the day. “We went out for dinner with our friends at Sizzler’s.”

Yates locked eyes with Murphy, pushing up his eyebrows. Murphy took the apparent hint, fishing out his notebook and pen. 

“Who all was there?” Yates asked.

Kyle counted on his fingers. “Um, me, Eric Cartman, Butters Stotch, Kenny McCormick, and Tweek Tweak.”

“And was Scott with you the whole time?” 

“Yes.”

“Did he seem nervous about anything? Not like himself?” 

“…Not that I remember, no.”

“In the days leading up to his death, did anything seem out of the ordinary? Was he talking to someone he normally wouldn’t be? Disappearing a lot?”

Kyle narrowed his eyes, just slightly. “No. No, he— he was just being Scott.”

Yates nodded, scrubbing his hand along his chin. Kyle shivered under the frigid temperature of the room, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his fingers. Murphy had been scribbling down everything he said, constantly flipping the pages for a fresh sheet. 

Yates continued. “How well do you know Stanley Marsh?”

The question caught Kyle off guard. He blinked, instinctively knitting his eyebrows together as a hesitant feeling washed over him. 

“Stan Marsh?” He asked, voice pitching up with puzzlement. Kyle didn’t know whether or not he should lie. He didn’t necessarily feel like unearthing the entire truth about his and Stan’s past, it was so grossly irrelevant to the topic of interest. But, he also had to keep in mind that any bit of information could potentially help catch Scott’s killer. He wanted justice for his friend. Scott deserved that much from him. “I don’t, really. I mean he was friends with Scott, but I don't like him. Neither do any of my friends.” 

Yates cocked his head to the side. “Why’s that?”

Kyle suppressed a chuckle. If it were anyone else asking, he would have them sitting there for hours, while he listed all the reasons Stan Marsh was a self-conceited asshole. But today, he had to be professional. 

“Stan’s not really the kind of person to be likable, Detective.” Kyle answered, truthfully. “He’s… well, he kind of sees the world through hierarchy. He thinks he’s above others.” 

“He’s arrogant.” Yates conjectured, narrowing his eyes in understanding. “How’d you come to that conclusion?”

Kyle sighed. He knew he shouldn’t be upset over certain questions, especially since Yates was the first person with jurisdiction in South Park to actually give a shit. He couldn’t say the same for their own police department. But he couldn’t help but feel annoyed, every conversation always went back to Stan, even one that had nothing to do with him to begin with. 

“...He used to bully me, in middle school. So I guess you could say we have some bad blood.” Kyle replied, a severe understatement. He had no problem throwing Stan under the bus, and any chance he had to avoid talking about that day, he would take. 

Yates seemed satisfied with his answer, wetting his lips in thought. Kyle glanced at Murphy, who was still furiously writing on the notepad. He could hear the pen tip scraping against the paper, a mildly irritating sound. 

Yates grabbed an extra chair from the side of the room, spinning it on its leg until it was facing the door. He straddled the seat, resting his arms across the top of the backrest. 

“Are you aware that Stanley Marsh was arrested last year for underage drinking and possession of marijuana?” He asked.

Kyle huffed through his nose. “No. But I’m not surprised.”

“Does he do that kind of thing a lot?” Yates narrowed his eyes again. 

Kyle nodded, acutely aware of how much trouble Stan could get into for his answer, but he couldn’t care less. Although, he wondered where the detective was going with this. The conversation had shifted so quickly from Scott, that he almost forgot what the initial topic was about. It was clear that for some reason, Yates suspected Stan to be responsible, if not partly, for Scott’s death. But as much as Kyle hated the quarterback, he doubted that opinion entirely. 

“What about Scott?” Yates seemed to have read his mind, circling back to the only name that mattered. “Did he do that kind of thing too?” 

Kyle’s heart lurched in his chest. Not enough to show, but enough to quicken his heart rate. He swallowed, discreetly, as he squeezed his arms tighter around himself. He wasn’t planning on lying, but he couldn’t help his instinctual response. He was used to covering for Scott, for times that he needed an alibi and had little to no options. 

“...No.” Kyle said.

Murphy stopped writing, flicking his eyes towards the nervous redhead. Yates tapped his fingers rhythmically across the back of the chair, Kyle could practically see the gears turning behind the man’s stiff gaze. Brown burned into green, and Kyle could feel himself being scrutinized. He broke contact soon after, staring at the grainy pattern of the carpeted floor. 

Yates sighed. “Look kid, I get it. Okay, you want to protect your friend.” He said, looking defeated from Kyle’s answer. “But, for lack of better words, Scott Malkinson is gone. Alright, there’s no one for you to protect.”

Despite his wishes, Kyle’s knee began to shake. He was anxious now, the exact opposite of what he wanted to be during a police interrogation. He mulled over Yates’ words, and the bare truth of it all. The last thing he wanted was for Scott to be painted as a delinquent, even after he was already gone. He could just see it now, articles highlighting the bad over the good. People would say that Scott had it coming. They’d blame his parents. They’d grasp at straws trying to justify his death, anything that required the least amount of effort. In Kyle’s eyes, no one was taking this seriously. No one except himself and Yates, who already had the wrong idea. 

“...Scott was a good person, Detective.” He said, voice small yet certain. He brought his eyes back up to Yates. “He knew where to draw the line, unlike his other friends.” 

Murphy scribbled down his answer. Yates nodded. 

“…I know what you’re thinking.” Kyle continued, ignoring the way his vision began to gloss over. “But he… Scott wasn’t like that. He didn’t go looking for trouble.” 

Yates watched him carefully. “Would you say that he was influenced? Pressured into doing things he wouldn’t normally do?” 

Kyle nodded his head, slowly, unsure of his answer until it was too late to change it. He wasn’t exactly sure how Scott came to be the way he was, partying every week when the only thing remotely close to that used to be movie marathons at Kyle’s house. Before everything, before football and popularity, Scott was a nerd. He was friends with Kyle first. His influence was good, unlike Stan’s. 

He didn’t know how Scott did it, staying between friend groups when both parties were completely different from one another. Kyle’s friends would shit talk Stan’s, and vice versa, yet Scott always laughed with them either way. Kyle couldn’t be mad, he gave them the same amount of attention he did Stan and his clique. It was fair. That’s what made him a good friend. 

Kyle clarified, desperate to make sure that Yates saw the point he was trying to make. “Just… I need you to understand that this wasn’t Scott’s fault. He didn’t ask for this, okay? He was just—“

“Hanging with the wrong crowd.” Yates finished for him. “Don’t worry, kid. We get it.” 

Kyle slumped in his seat, feeling slightly relieved. He relaxed his arms a bit, loosening them over his torso. He knew his words wouldn’t be enough to sway the detectives’ opinions, but it was enough to get them to see another perspective. In a way, he felt like he was playing Kenny’s role in his own life, being the only voice of reason. 

Kenny.

Oh fuck.

Kyle had to refrain from dropping his head into his hands. He’d forgotten about his promise to Kenny. He’d agreed that he would tell the police about the phone calls from the stranger, and everything the stranger had said to him. He was too busy lying on his dead friend’s behalf to even consider it.

“I think we have everything we need.” Yates said, getting up from his chair and putting it back where he found it. “You’re free to go.” 

Murphy wrote down some last minute notes, before stepping aside and opening the door. Kyle promptly stood up.

“Wait!” He exclaimed, watching as both detectives froze. They turned to him expectantly, and to Kyle’s surprise, he froze too. 

Right now, Yates’ suspicions were focused on Stan. After Kyle basically ratted him out for everything he did, they had every right to be. But if he were to admit that he’d talked to the person who killed Scott, all of that suspicion would shift onto him. Kyle had seen plenty of cop dramas. Granted, they were grossly inaccurate, but the gist that he always took away was the fact that everyone was extremely quick to blame. Now, he had no idea if Yates had spoken to Stan already, but even if he did that would have been too fast. In Kyle’s eyes, Stan was a lot of things — selfish, vile, obnoxious and irritating — but he was no killer. That much he could admit. 

If Yates was as quick to suspect Kyle as he already did Stan, the next two weeks would be nothing but trips to the police station. Kyle would be lucky to have five minutes to himself without being hounded with a potential murder charge. It wasn’t worth it, even with the consequence of hurting Kenny. 

“…Never mind, I— I forgot.” Kyle lied, his words spilling off his tongue that felt numb in his mouth. He could not wait to get the hell out of there.

Yates stared at him for a moment, as if considering him. Kyle prayed that he wouldn’t ask Murphy to close the door again, he didn’t want to go through more questioning. But much to his relief, Yates only nodded.

He reached inside his suit jacket, pulling out a small piece of paper. He extended his hand towards Kyle, offering it to him. The redhead grabbed it, realizing it was a card.

“In case you remember.” Yates said. “If you ever want to talk in person, come down to the station.”

Kyle turned the card over in his palm, reading off Yates’ name and work number. He looked up at the man, smiling to conceal any underlying nervousness.

“Okay.” 

“They’re from Denver?” Kyle’s eyebrows shot up at the revelation. 

Kenny nodded from where he laid, his body draped over two levels of the metal bleachers. He was leaning on his elbows facing the football field, lounging under the subtle warmth of the fall sun. He’d promised Kyle he would stay after school with him until Stan finished practice, so Kyle wouldn’t have to sit by himself. Kyle tried to assure him that it was fine, but the blonde had been relentless. So, they had both ended up up recounting their time with the detectives, comparing questions and answers as if they were reviewing a study guide for a test. As it turned out, Yates and Murphy weren’t local, instead springing from the Denver branch of Colorado’s justice division.  

“Huh. Well that explains why they’re actually interested in solving this case.” Kyle quipped sarcastically, jabbing at the incompetence that was South Park’s police department. He flipped over the pencil in his hand, erasing stray led marks as he continued writing his essay for English. He figured the best way to pass time while he waited for Stan to finish practice was to do his homework early. 

“Yeah. I wonder why, though. It’s kind of weird.” Kenny agreed, rolling his body onto its side so that he was facing Kyle. “And quick, too. I mean, who in their right mind would jump on a case like this? Especially in some hick town like South Park?”

Kyle scoffed, finishing his thought on paper before answering. “Just be grateful they’re even here, dude.” 

A rich sentence coming from him, especially since Kyle didn’t have much faith in Detective Yates. 

“Of course I’m grateful, Ky… but think about it. Why else would they send two out of town detectives for one singular murder, unless they think it’s something bigger?” Kenny pointed out, shifting around again and laying on his back. “I’m starting to think Cartman was right.”

Kyle’s pencil tip snapped in half. 

“Kenny.” He warned, instantly recalling back to their mall trip the day before. “You’re the one who—“

“I know, I know.” The blonde interjected, waving a dismissive hand Kyle’s way. “But I’m allowed to change my mind, okay? And if there is an honest-to-god killer out there, I think we should be prepared.”

Kyle gulped, anxiety piercing his chest as if he’d just been impaled with a sword. Most of the time, he liked being right. It gave him an overwhelming sense of pride, accompanied with the fact that his thought process was on point. But, usually, Kyle was right about math questions. He was right about guessing the amount of time needed to cook frozen pizza, or how many episodes of Big Bang Theory he could watch before bed. He was never right about things like this. Every time he’d merely start theorizing, his ideas get shut down.  

Kyle had considered the possibility of Scott’s killer striking again, but Kenny had been there to calmly advise him to forget it. He had been at constant war with his thoughts, the better half of him siding with Kenny, while the worser half wanted to investigate. But he didn’t want to be right anymore. Not about this. A serial killer in South Park was something out of a nightmare, something no one in this town was ready for. 

“So you’re siding with Cartman of all people?” Kyle spat. He reached behind him for his backpack, digging through it until he felt his pencil case. 

“I’m not siding with him dude, I’m just—“ Kenny let out a defeated sigh, looking forward. “…Shit’s getting weird. That’s all. I mean do I even have to mention how they found Scott?”

Kyle closed his eyes, his gut wrenching with nausea at the mere thought of Scott’s dead body. “Please, don’t.”

Kenny paused, considering the redhead with worried eyes.

“…You’re right.” He said, much to Kyle’s relief. “Too soon.” 

He let go of the heavy breath that was trapped inside his lungs. Kyle could feel his anxiety rising, thoughts looming inside his mind tainted by grief. He just wanted this to be over already, even if that seemed improbable. He sounded like a hypocrite for thinking that, wishing for things to go back to normal when he damn well knew nothing would ever be normal again. It sucked, it really sucked, because Kyle could already feel the amount of tension that would arise at even the mention of Scott’s name. He could already see how people would walk on eggshells around him, worried that the wrong reaction could set him off. It was said that time healed, but how much time would it take for everyone to stop feeling sorry for him? How much time would it take for Kyle to stop feeling so guilty?

He didn’t do anything wrong, right? He kept those calls a secret because it would waste the police’s time. Time that they could be using to look for Scott’s actual killer. The last thing Kyle wanted was to give people false hope – give Scott’s family false hope – with solving this case. 

Kenny pulled down the hood of his parka. “So they think it’s Stan, huh?” 

Kyle grabbed his backpack again, putting away his homework, since the likelihood of him focusing was just nonexistent. “Something like that.” 

“Sorry, but I don’t see it.” Kenny clicked his tongue, watching the aforementioned quarterback as he ran through practice with the rest of the team. “He’s a dick and all, but I just can’t picture him with a knife in his hands.”

“Well, like it or not, he’s a suspect. And so are we, mind you.” Kyle pointed out, averting his attention to the football field. He could see the sweat on Stan’s back from where he sat, as the jock threw a pass to Kevin Stoley. He guessed that it was a good play, considering the team’s cheering once Kevin made it past the touchdown line. 

Kyle didn’t know jack shit about football, and frankly he could care less about learning. The only sport he’d been mildly interested in was basketball, which he’d only played for two seasons a few years back. It didn’t take him long to get sick of it, his fixation being a phase like his guitar. He liked his free time, he liked not having such a busy schedule every day, which he guessed was also one of the reasons why he quit. Gerald would nag him about joining another sport, Kyle found it funny how enthusiastic his father was when it came to his kids being part of a team. Ike was more interested in his school’s science club than he was with sports, but with the scouts club, he was almost able to do both. If hiking in the woods to learn about survival techniques was considered a sport. 

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you did it.” Kenny said, donning a grin on his lips as he nudged Kyle’s leg. 

The redhead huffed. “Thanks, dude. Same to you.”

Kenny’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, and Kyle avoided eye contact at all costs. He wasn’t sure if Kenny knew that Kyle broke his promise, he hadn’t brought up the calls in the entire time they’d been discussing their interrogations, but maybe there was a slim chance that he just forgot. There was no way he knew, right? The blonde was excellent at reading people, especially Kyle, but there wasn’t a chance he could pick up on the fact that he lied to him. Right?

It seemed like hours had gone by the longer they sat there, and by the time practice was over the sun was beginning to set. The once grey sky was now dark with storm clouds, rain threatening to break through and flood the town at any moment. 

Randy Marsh, who Kyle just found out had also been the football coach for South Park High, blew his whistle and called it a day. The team scattered off towards the benches, grabbing for their water bottles and desperately gulping down their contents. Kyle even saw two players spray themselves in the face with water. He cocked a brow. Obviously the October weather wasn’t cold enough for them. 

“Broflovski!” 

Kyle flicked his eyes down towards Stan, who was standing at the bottom of the bleachers with his sports bag clutched in his arm. 

“Time to go!” He shouted.

Kyle rolled his eyes, not missing the slight hint of venom in the quarterback’s tone. 

“That’s me.” He mentioned to Kenny, as he reached behind him again, grabbing his backpack and slinging one strap over his shoulder. Kenny followed his movements as he stood up straight.

“Text me when you get home.” He said, playfully punching the redhead’s shoulder as he made his way towards the stairs. “And try not to kill him!”

“Absolutely zero promises in regards to that!” Kyle yelled back without turning, taking his sweet time strolling down the steps.

Kyle watched the world go by through the glass of Stan’s passenger side window, the soft sound of tires whirring against pavement settling his congested mind. He ignored Stan’s music playing rather loudly, even if it was the same kind of genre that he liked. It was just another thing he could do to spite the other boy, which he gladly did with a smile on his face.

It had started raining the second they left the school parking lot, droplets smacking against the windshield as they drove across town. Thunder cracked and rumbled under the sky, the clouds flashing every few minutes with bouts of lightning. It was a strong storm, one that mirrored the baggage weighing on Kyle’s shoulders, but he wanted to make the most of it. Kyle had found that it was easier for him to focus during thunderstorms, something about the sound of the rain tapping against the ground soothed him so. He planned to revisit his English essay as soon as he got home, the quicker he got it out of the way, the quicker he could evaluate his day and overthink again. As unappealing as that sounded, it was the only way he could move forward.

“What did you say to the cops?” Stan asked, his monotone voice an all but jumpscare in contrast to the silence. 

Kyle refused to look at him. “What?”

The quarterback sighed, an annoyed gesture which Kyle argued with an eyeroll. Stan shifted his grip on the steering wheel as he made a left turn. “That Yates guy? He talked to you. I know that because he asked me to talk to him too. So what did you say to him?”

Immediately, Kyle understood the direction Stan was trying to take. 

“If you’re wondering if I ratted on you, then, no. I didn’t.” Kyle lied right through his teeth. He was tired, he didn’t want to fight when he was so close to his down time. Doing so would only put more stress on his day.

“What about Stark’s Pond?” Stan asked, and Kyle could feel his blue eyes scorching the back of his head. “Did you tell them Scott was with us that night?” 

“No.” Kyle spat, which was the first truth he’d spoken in the last few hours. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk? Why are you nagging me?”

“It’s my fucking car. I’ll do what I want.” Stan snapped, turning back towards the road. The windshield wipers scraped unevenly against the glass, leaving dry marks behind. “So you didn’t say anything about Stark’s Pond?”

“No.” Kyle answered curtly. He was done talking. His head hurt, and the only thing that sounded remotely appealing to him was a bottle of tylenol and his living room couch. 

Thankfully, Stan was done too. The car once again descended into silence, with nothing but the storm and Men At Work playing on the radio to fill it. 

When Stan pulled into his driveway, Kyle tried not to slam the jeep door. He really did. But, he guessed that the immortal anger simmering under his skin was to blame, being in close quarters with his enemy would do that. Stan had called out some meager threat to him as he ran up his front porch, but Kyle deliberately ignored him. He was too desperate to settle down.

Which was why he had to stop himself from slumping against the door as it shut behind him, relieved to finally be safe in the comfort of his home. Kyle took a deep breath of familiar air before tossing his backpack on the floor, water dripping from his dampened clothes. He still wanted to get his homework done sooner than later, but a few minutes of unwinding wouldn’t hurt anyone. He tossed his keys into a decorative bowl on the entryway table, along with his phone. 

“Ike! Are you here?” Kyle yelled up the staircase, waiting for an indication that he wasn’t home alone. It was Monday, and well past the time that South Park Middle School let out for the day. Ike didn’t have scouts that night, so there was no reason for his little brother to not be there.

And yet, there was no answer to his call. 

Kyle sighed. He was too exhausted to deal with this. Ike was probably at his friend’s house and just forgot to text. It was only the first day without their parents, and usually it was Sheila’s job to communicate plans. He couldn’t blame Ike for letting that slip his mind. He’d try calling him later, after he got some fucking pain killers. 

Kyle trudged into the kitchen, his footsteps on beat with a clap of thunder that rolled through the sky. The sound was slightly muffled, but jarring nonetheless. His heart jumped in his chest from the noise, only settling down once he spotted the medicine cabinet above the sink. He flicked on the main kitchen light, a bright glow flooding the room. Greedily, he ripped open the door and swiped a bottle of tylenol. He unscrewed the cap and grabbed the same cup he’d used for orange juice that morning, filling it up with tap water before popping the pills into his mouth. Kyle chugged his drink until he was satisfied, dumping the rest of it into the sink. 

He turned back around, aiming to put the cap back on the tylenol bottle, when another loud sound made him flinch. This time, it was the ringtone of his landline phone, the piercing sound nearly causing the pill bottle to slip through his fingers. 

Kyle swore under his breath the same time as another roll of thunder snapped at the sky. He quickly put away the tylenol before hurrying around the kitchen island. He reached for the phone, but stopped dead in his tracks. 

On the caller ID screen, the name Malkinson blinked back at him. 

Kyle yanked back his hand faster than he ever had before, as if he’d touched a scalding hot pan on the stove. The ringing had suddenly become so loud, he couldn’t hear the thunder anymore. The storm might as well have been over, everything around him was deathly quiet. 

He let out a shuddering breath, the action prompting a cold shiver to snake up his spine and around his shoulders. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t even move, let alone think of how to go about the situation. Should he text Kenny? No. If he did, the blonde would only ask him what Detective Yates said about the calls, then he would be caught in a lie. He could let it go to voicemail, but there was no telling what kind of message the stranger would leave for someone else to potentially find — for Ike to potentially find. 

Kyle had no choice. He had to deal with it, right then and there. With a shaky hand, he reached back out towards the phone, grasping the receiver tightly in his palm. 

“Hello?” He called. 

“…Kyle?” A feminine voice answered. “Hi, it’s— it’s Ellen. Ellen Malkinson.”

Kyle’s shoulders instantly slumped, a silent sigh of relief escaping between his quivering lips.

“Mrs. Malkinson, hi,” He greeted, repressing a humored chuckle that rose in his chest. He couldn’t believe himself. “How are you? I mean— h-how are you doing?”

“…Clark and I are… managing, although I— I know I don’t sound like it.” She answered, and Kyle could hear the tears trapped behind her eyes. He could hear the way they shook her voice, lacing her words with a sorrowful note. 

“I’m… so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Malkinson.” Kyle frowned, his heart aching for the woman on the other line. “Scott was a good person. One of my best friends.”

“Thank you, Kyle. That means so much to us. You were always so good to him.” Ellen replied, sniffling through the speaker. “I… I was just calling to let you know that there’s going to be a— a funeral service, Wednesday afternoon… and… I— I hoped that you’d be willing to go.” 

Kyle squeezed the fabric of his crewneck sweater between his fingers. “…Of course I’ll go. Thank you for the invite.” 

“Of course, dear. I’m inviting each of… Scott’s friends, and… well, you were the first one on our list.”  Ellen said, her son’s name on her tongue almost too much to bear. 

“I appreciate that.” Kyle smiled, his eyebrows knitted together with empathy. “I wouldn’t dare miss it.”

“Thank you. So much.” Ellen’s breath hitched in her throat. She took a deep breath before continuing. “…It will be at South Park Cemetery, at four-o-clock.”

Quickly, Kyle grabbed a dry erase marker off the refrigerator door, scribbling down the details on the whiteboard. “O-okay. Got it.”

“Will, um… a-are Gerald and Sheila—? I— I know they were planning a trip, but, um…” Ellen couldn’t seem to ask the question clearly. Luckily, Kyle understood.

“Oh, uh… m-my parents already left. Yesterday.” He said, now wishing he had asked them to stay. 

“Oh.” Ellen murmured. “…No worries, then. I hope to see you there.” 

“You too.” Kyle replied, immediately chastising himself. Of course Scott’s own mother was going to be at his fucking funeral. How stupid could he get?

The line then clicked, and the call had ended. Kyle placed the receiver back onto its stand, his eyes traveling to the whiteboard on his fridge. His stomach began to turn over with guilt again, the words reading back to him like a mockery of his grief. 

He felt for Ellen. He truly did. Kyle couldn’t imagine what she and Scott’s father were feeling, ten times worse than whatever he had been feeling in the last three days. Losing a best friend was nothing compared to losing a child, their only child, especially in such a brutal way. Kyle shivered again, as the memory of the newscast flashed behind his eyes. He shook his head, the grisly image disappearing shortly after. 

He sighed, moving around the kitchen and back to the foyer, heading down the hall to pick up his backpack. His mind was gradually starting to settle, as he was luckily able to avoid a headache even with the volume of the storm outside. Lightning followed thunder as a glow rippled through the windows, briefly illuminating the hallway. Kyle bent down to grab his bag, when suddenly something stopped him. 

A loud thud sounded from somewhere on the second floor, immediately drawing his attention towards the stairs. It was too distinct to be the storm, like something had fallen on the carpet of one of their bedrooms. Kyle stood up, instantly forgetting about his essay.

“Ike?!” He called, the darkness of the upstairs hallway blending with the shadows along the walls. Thunder rumbled again, and the rain began to pick up. It was no longer a pleasant sound.

There was another thud, much louder than the first, and Kyle jumped, almost enough to feel the front door against his back. Quickly, he dug through his pants pockets for his phone, before realizing that he’d left it on the entryway table. He fumbled with the bowl of keys while trying to get a grip on the device, nearly dropping it when there was another thud. He scrolled through his contacts before clicking on Ike’s, bringing the phone up to his ear while he grabbed an umbrella hanging off the wall. 

“Shit,” He muttered, hearing the call go to voicemail. Ike wasn’t answering. His heart was racing behind his ribcage, beating against his chest and threatening to break through. Was there someone in his house? Was it– was it Scott’s killer? Was Kyle next on their list?

He pocketed his phone and took a cautious step towards the stairs, umbrella raised behind him as if it were a baseball bat. He was stupid for doing this, right? He should call the police. But what if they don’t get there in time? What if Kyle died before Yates could hear about the phone calls? 

He was halfway up the stairs when there was another thud, quieter like the first. Kyle hesitated, breath irregular while he simultaneously tried to silence it. He was damn near the point of hyperventilating, his hands were beginning to hurt from the tight grip on his umbrella. Still, he pushed forward. Kyle reached the landing at the top of the stairs, pausing to listen for another sound. There were too many doors for him to guess where it was coming from, he would be dead if he picked the wrong one. 

Kyle flinched back, hearing the noise again from behind his bedroom door. His heart sank down into his gut, retching his insides with overwhelming dread. He took in a sharp breath, hardening his muscles to appear stronger to himself. He stopped in front of his door, taking one hand off the umbrella to reach for the handle. 

The door swung open before he could grab it, and Kyle let out a sharp gasp. He blindly slashed the umbrella towards the intruder, hitting the adjacent wall instead of the silhouette he was aiming for. They’d dodged his attack.

“Woah!” Came a voice, too familiar to miss. Kyle was ready to swing again, but paused when the light from his bedroom caught the face of his little brother, wearing a pair of black headphones.

“Did you just try to hit me with an umbrella?!” Ike shouted, ripping the headset off his ears.

“Oh, god damn it, Ike!” Kyle breathed, grateful relief soothing his tightened chest. He lowered the makeshift weapon to his side. “You scared the hell out of me! What are you doing in my room?!”

“Chill out, okay, I was just playing Beat Saber!” Ike defended, pushing past Kyle and heading towards the stairs. Kyle followed after him. “Your monitor has better frame rates than mine, I just wanted an accurate depiction of my favorite game. Is that illegal?”

“No, but you could have answered me when I called you!” Kyle exclaimed, racing behind him. 

“Okay you of all people should know that hearing is one of the main things you lose while playing Beat Saber. Sorry that you’re less inclined to learn the basics about VR than I am.” Ike said, shrugging while he rounded the bannister. 

“Jesus Christ Ike, just— keep your fucking phone on, okay? I need you to pick up when I call you.” Kyle demanded, putting the umbrella back on the wall once he reached the floor. 

“Whatever, mom.” Ike replied, strolling into the kitchen without a care in the world. “Oh, remember, tonight’s pizza night!” 

Kyle rolled his eyes. He had to deal with enough sass today from Stan, and now Ike had him teetering on the line of a temper tantrum. He just wanted a quiet night. 

A crack of thunder and lightning sounded from outside, another white glow flashing over the windows. Rain pattered against the glass and rooftop, creating a calm ambience. Calmer than how it sounded before, when Kyle thought he was going to die. He silently thanked the universe for cutting him some slack. 

He reached for his phone on the entryway table, surprisingly not flinching when the screen lit up with a phone call. Kyle figured his body was ready for a scare that time. 

Reading Kenny’s contact name, he answered it. “Yeah?” 

“Hey.” Kenny’s voice sounded through the speaker. “You didn’t text me.”

“I know. Sorry, I forgot.” Kyle said, picking up his backpack and bringing it to the living room couch. Kenny seemed to have noticed his short tone, of course the boy used his reading skills through the phone.

“You okay?” He asked. 

“Yes. No. No, I– I just…” Kyle stopped, scrubbing a hand through his curls. He sighed. Everything was just too much right now. The last thing he wanted was to talk through his feelings. He just wanted to relax, get this call out of the way as fast as possible.

“...Scott’s mom called me. About his funeral. It’s on Wednesday.”

“...Are you going?” The blonde asked.

Kyle furrowed his eyebrows, bristling at the response. “What the hell Kenny, of course I'm going! Are you going?!”

“Of course! I was just– I-I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too much for you, you know?” Kenny said, diplomatically. 

“He was our fucking friend. He would’ve wanted us at his funeral, I’m not skipping out just because I feel like shit.” Kyle replied, feeling the familiar anger bubble in his chest.

“Right. I-I know. I’m sorry, I… don’t even know why I asked you that.” 

“It’s fine.” Kyle closed his eyes. “Look, I gotta go, okay? Ike wants pizza.”

Kenny laughed, the sound irritating him over anything else. “Why am I not surprised?” He quipped, which prompted a small huff from Kyle. “Tell him hi for me, would you?”

“Sure.” He curtly answered. “Bye, Ken.” 

“I'll call you later–”

The line clicked, and Kyle all but threw his phone onto the couch, making his way towards the kitchen to call for dinner.

“I didn’t see you at the assembly,” Wendy pointed out, glancing up at Stan while they looked over their menus. “Were you sitting with other people?”

Stan hummed, only half present for their conversation. He’d been staring at the same double bacon cheeseburger without blinking, letting his thoughts run wild. Under the fabric of his letterman jacket’s pocket, he fidgeted with a small card given to him by Detective Yates. He ran the pad of his thumb over the indented lettering, feeling the bold font beneath his skin. He could try to hide it, but Stan was undeniably nervous. Kyle had assured him that he didn’t say anything about the night of Scott’s death, but his word was as good as their promise that was broken in the sixth grade. He couldn’t trust it.

Stan couldn’t even vouch for his other friends, since none of them had been questioned yet. It seemed like Yates was fixated on Kyle’s friends for that day, since Stan passed the music room between second and third period and saw Eric Cartman through the window of the door. Yates had approached him before the final bell, handing him his card and scheduling a time for his interrogation. Of course, the man hadn’t worded it like that, instead making it sound like they were meeting up for coffee. Stan couldn’t decide which one he would rather have. 

“Stan.” Wendy’s voice broke him out of his thoughts again. He looked up at her, blinking for the first time in what felt like ten minutes. “I said I didn’t see you at the assembly. Were you sitting somewhere else?”

“Oh.” Stan said, glancing away from Wendy’s brown eyes that, at that moment, seemed to be staring right through his soul. “Yeah, um… I was in the bathroom. Then I got stuck behind the goth kids.”

Wendy huffed, smiling softly. “Yikes. Sounds like a blast.”

“...Tell me about it.” Stan murmured, flipping over Yates’ card in his hand again. 

The restaurant was surprisingly busy for a Monday night, and with the storm outside Stan had assumed people would take that as a reason to stay home. But Sizzler’s had a reputation for good vibes, something that South Park was in desperate need of after these last few days. It was a running joke that the diner would have business even during a hurricane, their food and drinks sometimes being the exact pick-up that people craved. 

“Stan, I…” Wendy started, closing her menu to focus on the boy in front of her. Stan tried to look at anything he could to avoid matching her gaze. “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Although, those eight words had Stan snapping his head to face her. “What? Do what?”

“Make small talk.” Wendy clarified, looking between each of his icy eyes. “We’re here because I wanted you to talk to me. So please. Talk to me.”

If someone had told Stan that Wendy Testaburger, the same girl who he’d been in a situationship with for the past month, would one day be pleading for him to talk to her, he would’ve spit in their face. Wendy’s reputation had been much like his own, except she was much more grounded. She was good at setting boundaries, she never let herself get strung along in a relationship that clearly wouldn’t work. Which was why Stan was so goddamn confused. Why was she chasing after him like this? Why was she putting herself through this, knowing damn well he would just end up hurting her? Hell, he already did hurt her, and they weren’t even together. Stan knew he was bad for her, and yet he cracked so easily under the threat of losing her. It was embarrassing. He was embarrassing.

He couldn’t keep this up. If either of them had any chance at happiness, it wouldn’t be together. He had to end this before it got out of hand. He had to save her before it was too late.

Stan scrubbed a hand down his tired face. “Wendy… I really don’t know what you want me to say.”

Wendy reached for his right hand across the table, his left still occupied with Yates’ card. “I want you to be open with me. I want you to tell me the truth.” 

He tried to savor her touch for as long as he could, before he forced himself to pull his hand away. “There is no truth, Wendy. That’s the thing. You think there’s some deeper meaning to the way I am but there isn’t. Okay? I’m just me, plain and simple.”

“No.” Wendy shook her head, denying his words. “No, in the hallway–”

“Oh come on, Wends– you caught me in a moment of weakness, alright? I was stressed! You were yelling at me, and I barely had any time to compose myself!” He exclaimed. 

“You cried, Stan. I fucking saw you. How can you sit there and tell me there’s no truth to that?” Wendy said, slanting her eyes with disapproval. 

Stan dropped his head into his hands, unable to stop the anxious chuckle that slipped out. 

“I cried because I’m not very fond of getting wailed on while I’m already upset. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He asked, shortly. 

Wendy opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped as a waiter approached their table. The lighting was a little off, and Stan had a little trouble pinpointing the waiter’s features under his red visor, but he already knew who it was. And it seemed like the waiter knew too. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t South Park High’s very own quarterback.” Kenny McCormick smiled slyly, dipping his head in a mock sort of bow. “And is that— oh, my! Wendy Testaburger?!”

Wendy returned his smile, even if it wasn’t quite as genuine. “Hi, Ken.” 

Stan rolled his eyes, knowing he’d be in for a night of sarcasm with McCormick around. He should have expected that from Kyle’s best friend, the redhead must have been rubbing off on him.

“What can I get our two golden kids to drink this evening?” Kenny asked, pulling out a notebook and pen. He bent down slightly, acting as if he were talking to two children.

“Lemonade?” Wendy answered, pointing to the word on her menu. Kenny scribbled it down, nodding his head, before turning to Stan.

“Coke.” He said, and he watched as a shit-eating grin curved up Kenny’s lips.

“Sorry, dude. No more coke tonight.” He said, lacing his tone with a certain passive aggressiveness. Not enough for Stan to call him out on, but enough to get his blood boiling. 

He sighed, looking at the menu again. “Pepsi?” 

Kenny kissed his teeth. “Out.”

“…Sprite.” Stan tried. 

“Out.” Kenny shut him down. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake— mountain dew?” 

“You’ve got some shit luck tonight, bud.” Kenny beamed at him. 

“Fucking— water. Get me a water.” 

“Ou—“

Stan slammed his fist on the table top, shaking the sauce holders. “Don’t play with me, McCormick!”

Wendy glared at him with pure malice, while Kenny snickered beside them.

“I’m just messing with you, dude.” He said, waving his hand. “One water and one lemonade, coming right up.” 

Stan had to hold himself back from lunging at the blonde while he walked away. He wondered how the hell Kenny could get away with shit like that on the job, without getting fired. He wondered a lot of things about the redneck, like where the hell he found the nerve to fuck with him like that. He had to know that Stan could beat the shit out of him if he wanted to, right?

“Stan.” Wendy called, earning his attention again. “I know you think you’re alone on this, but you’re not. You can always talk to me. I’m here.” 

Stan was done now. His entire mood was just completely dumped down the drain, like a bad bottle of whiskey well past its expiration date. 

“There’s nothing else to talk about, Wendy. You’re not getting anywhere with this shit. Fucking– just stop. Okay? Stop trying to get through to me.”

“No.” Wendy whispered, grabbing for his hand again. He didn’t have enough time to pull away. Not that he even wanted to. “I care about you, Stan. I always have, even if I act like I don’t. I hate seeing you in pain like this–”

“I’m not in pain–”

“You are,” She cut him off. “You are, and– and that’s okay. I want to help you. Why won’t you let me help you?” 

“Because maybe I don’t want your fucking help, Wendy! Did that ever occur to you?!” Stan all but shouted in her face. Wendy reeled back, mildly shocked. “You can’t force me to open up if I never wanted to in the first place!”  

Wendy upturned her eyebrows with concern. She was the one to break contact with their hands, retracting hers with a slight twinge of regret. 

“…You can’t possibly deal with all of this on your own.” She stated, a fair assumption. Too bad it was the wrong one. 

Stan stood up from the booth. He double checked that his phone was in his pocket, leaning over the table and staring into Wendy’s eyes.

“Fucking watch me.” 

He pushed off the table and stormed towards the exit, dodging a group of customers who were being seated at the table across from them. He felt Wendy’s eyes at the back of his head, and all he wanted to do was turn around and run to her. But it wasn’t worth it. For either of them. 

“Leaving so soon, mister quarterback?” Kenny called out while he passed him, carrying two glasses which were headed to their table. 

Stan lost it. He swerved on his heel and grabbed McCormick by the front of his shirt, shoving him back against the bar. His body collided with the counter and knocked over a stool, drawing the eyes of everyone in the restaurant. The room went silent, the clattering of forks and spoons immediately ceasing. 

“Lay off.” Stan snarled, shoving him again for good measure. Kenny’s eyes were wide, but he wasn’t intimidated. Stan didn’t care. He turned around, giving Wendy one last glance before slamming the glass doors open. 

It was a big mistake coming here. He thought that it would be easy to drive Wendy away, but it wasn’t. He was wrong, and she was relentless. He wished it could have gone down differently, but it ended in his favor anyway. It wasn’t his problem anymore.

Raindrops coated his hat and jacket, as Stan strolled across the parking lot towards his car. The sky was pitch black now, occasionally glowing with strikes of lightning. The streetlamps were shining eerily on the pavement, reflecting off the newly formed puddles of water. Stan unlocked his car using his keyfob, watching the overhead lights turn on behind the glass. He reached for the door handle when he stopped, feeling his phone buzzing in his pocket. His ringer had been turned off, after being called out in class that morning for a text message disrupting the lesson.

Stan grabbed the device with a furious hand. He didn’t even need to check the contact, he knew it was Wendy, probably planning to threaten him for a logical explanation. After all, he was her ride, and he’d just ditched her. But if anything, that was just another reason for her to hate him, which was Stan’s entire goal. 

He placed the phone against his ear, ripping open the car door and clambering onto the seat. “What, Wendy?!”

He grabbed his beanie with his free hand, yanking it off his head and tossing it onto the passenger’s seat. The girl on the other line hadn’t responded, Stan just assumed she was trying not to flip out on him. Until;

“You’re not a very good listener, are you, Stan?”

The cold tone of a stranger’s voice answered back to him. Stan froze, heart leaping in his chest as he immediately recognized it. He pulled his phone back, waiting for the screen to turn on again. When it did, all his fears were confirmed. 

Scott Malkinson’s contact name stared back at him. 

He breathed, a short gasp that was wrapped with terror. Stan brought the phone back to his ear, a crackle of thunder adding to the horrifying atmosphere. 

“Who the fuck is this?” He muttered, bouncing his eyes around the parking lot. His mind was flooded with flashbacks of the night Wendy kissed him after practice, back when Scott calling him was as normal as the sun shining. 

“Your actions have consequences.” The voice said. “Let’s see if you remember that, after tonight.”

“Who the fuck is this?!” Stan screamed, his heart rate increasing along with his impatience. He never was able to gain an answer to his question, the stranger on the other end had dropped the call before he could. 

Stan let his phone fall out of his hand, clattering onto the floor near the gas pedal. He shoved the keys into the ignition and turned over the engine, desperate to get the fuck out of there. 

The drive home hadn’t done much to ease his nerves, but the further he drove from Sizzler’s the easier it became to breathe. Stan’s chest was still tight with fear, as he mulled over the ominous words which were spoken to him. Someone was messing with him. Someone who was in possession of Scott’s phone. Scott, the same person who had been dead for almost a week. Scott, who was lying in cold storage at a hospital morgue waiting to be buried. 

Whatever game this fucker was playing, Stan wanted no part of it. It wasn’t even remotely funny, which immediately ruled out any of his friends. Clyde wouldn’t do this. Tolkien didn’t have the heart. Craig couldn’t care less, and Jimmy had better things to do. This wasn’t them. This– this was a complete and utter stranger. 

Stan accidentally ran over the curb of his sidewalk while speeding up the driveway, too focused on escaping the tight space of his jeep to care about his parking job. He threw the car in park before pausing, catching up on all the breath he’d lost on the drive home. He ran his trembling fingers through his damp hair, trying his best to calm the fuck down. If he walked inside looking like a trainwreck, Randy wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. 

Stan shivered from the cold, he had forgotten to turn on the heat before driving off from the restaurant. He reached under his legs to pick up his phone, his lock screen covered with messages from Wendy. He didn’t bother reading them. He needed to regain his composure first. 

He listened to the thunder, closing his eyes and allowing his body to readjust to itself. The sounds of the storm grounded him enough to be able to breathe normally, his shoulders relaxed and slumped once the panic dissipated from his bones. He had to be dreaming. This was just a dream. He didn’t get a call from Scott’s number, he dreamt that. That wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been. 

Stan chuckled at his delusional mind, making up something so goddamn stupid it was almost amusing to him. He seriously needed to get a grip. If he went on like this, people would start to think he was crazy. 

He grabbed his beanie, tucking it over his head and stepping back out into the rain. He took his time walking up to the front door, allowing the cold water to knock him back into his senses. He was fine. 

Everything was fine. 

Stan groaned when his bedroom door slammed open, his hungover father stumbling into his room. He didn’t know what time it was, and quite frankly he didn’t care, already missing the feeling of being asleep. He stirred on his mattress, flipping his body over as Randy flicked on the light.

“Get up.” He ordered, tiredly. Half of Stan wanted to flip him off, drift back into unconsciousness and forget about his worries again, but the persistence of his father wouldn’t allow it. “Time for a run.” 

Stan internally sighed, rolling his eyes behind his still closed eyelids. He could hear the thunder outside, rattling the town with a continuation of yesterday’s storm. He hoped the rain would ease up before practice, Stan hated working out on wet grass. His morning jog would be no exception. 

Randy left his room, keeping the light turned on. “And tell your friend to get the fuck out of the driveway! They’re blocking me in!” 

Even half asleep, Stan still caught onto this. He furrowed his eyebrows, slowly opening his eyes and allowing them to adjust to the brightness. He didn’t ask anyone to come over, did he? Was Wendy there? Did she come to finish the argument about what she started the other night? 

Stan forced himself up, pushing the covers off his body and stretching his legs. He yawned, making his way across his room to the window overlooking the street. He wondered who his father was referring to, the most logical option being Wendy. She was almost as stubborn as Randy, even more so with Kyle. Both of them had the same kind of fiery attitude. He wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to talk to him again. 

Stan drew his curtains off the window with his hand, fixating his eyes on the extra vehicle in his driveway. The sky was still dark, and the rain hadn’t aided him with his vision whatsoever, but he could still make out the details that mattered. The car was a truck, a dark blue Ford F150, and Stan wracked his tired brain trying to remember which one of his friends it belonged to. 

And when the realization hit him, he was wide awake. 

It was Scott’s truck sitting in his driveway.

Chapter Text

Stan couldn’t breathe. Ice cold horror rippled through his body, numbing each of his senses until he didn’t feel real. The curtain fell between his fingers, swinging back against the window and obstructing his view again. He moved, legs stiff with fear while he backtracked away from the glass. He tripped over one of his shoes that had been carelessly left out, stumbling while it turned under his feet. Stan lost his balance, falling back into his nightstand. The table trembled from the sudden weight, his bedside lamp toppling over and unplugging itself from the wall. He braced himself on the flat surface, his chest rising and falling to mock the speed of a jackhammer. He gripped the sides of the table with his palms, nails digging into the wood and puncturing the grains. 

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Stan was dreaming again, wasn’t he? Just like last night. 

Thunder cracked at the dark sky, jostling his entire being. He shook his head, the movement so violent he was starting to become dizzy. Never once in his life had he ever experienced a panic attack, but in that moment Stan knew exactly what it felt like. His skin was on fire, as if he were burning in the pits of hell but couldn’t scream. His lungs were being crushed by the force of his own body, blocking his airways and suffocating him from the inside out. His ears were ringing, a repetitive deafening note that echoed through his soul. Stan’s fingertips turned white the harder they pressed into the table.

“Hey!”

Everything stopped. Stan sucked in a wavering breath, his eyes snapping up to meet his father’s. Randy was standing in his doorway, a can of bud light clutched in his palm. 

“The hell’s wrong with you?” 

Stan opened his mouth, his words clinging onto his throat to savor the silence. It didn’t last. “N-nothing.”

Randy gave him a onceover, studying him with a skeptical look. “Get dressed and go then.” 

He left the frame, staggering footsteps thumping over the carpet as he made his way down the hall. Stan lolled his head back, the feeling returning in his fingers once he eased his grip on the nightstand. He breathed in a few more times, settling himself while he floated back down to earth. It was working for a while, until that same wave of panic drowned him again.

He pushed off the table and darted back towards his window, ripping the curtains off the glass. Stan’s wide blown eyes landed on the same truck again, still parked on the drenched asphalt. He tangled his fingers into his hair, pushing his black locks back over his scalp. He felt his breathing pick up again. This wasn’t a dream. This was real. Scott Malkinson’s truck was sitting right in front of him. 

How did it get there? Someone had to have driven it to his house, but who? Why? 

Stan’s mind crammed itself with unanswerable questions, none of which helped him assess the situation any better. He forced himself still, lowering his hand from his hair and trying his best to calm down. The longer that truck was there, the higher the possibility it was that someone could recognize it. Stan had to do something and he had to do it now. 

He turned, taking the same shoes he’d tripped over just moments before, and shoved them onto his socked feet. He grabbed his varsity jacket off his desk chair, slipping it over his arms and starting out his bedroom door. His heart pounded under his skin with every step he took descending onto the downstairs floor. Stan rolled his shoulders back and tried to act normal, slowing his pace once he reached the last two steps. He could hear Randy and his mother in the kitchen, clamoring at the breakfast table. He didn’t spare them a glance, even as Randy called his name.

He opened the front door with as much strain as he could muster, refraining from sprinting even as the rain began to hit his face. He closed it behind him, a deep shudder wracking his spine as the hinges clicked shut. Stan focused ahead as the sky lit up with a flash of white lightning, momentarily reflecting off the surface of Scott’s truck. He balled his fists at his side as he approached it, studying the works. 

His fear quickly drained into something akin to anger, the very emotion he turned to when faced with something he couldn’t comprehend. Stan threw a glance back towards his house, gaze peering into the windows to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He double checked his surroundings too, the desolate street void of any curious neighbors. Shadows loomed under the trees which shook from the wind, blowing leaves across the wet and cracked pavement. The coast was clear. 

Stan didn’t know how long Scott’s truck had been in his driveway. It could have been minutes, or even hours. It could have been parked there all night, sitting under the pelting of raindrops while he slept, soundly and obliviously. While he was sure no one was looking now, he couldn’t attest the same thing for the amount of time he’d been unconscious. Someone could’ve very well already seen the truck, and reported it to the police. Stan could be on the top of Detective Yates’ suspect list. Yates could be racing across town right now, with a warrant out for his arrest. 

But in all the time he had been standing there, rain drenching his body from head to toe, all that Stan heard was the storm. There were no sirens, no screaming, just the crackling of the sky mixed with natural showers. That meant he still had time. Time to do what, he wasn’t quite sure. But he had to think of something, fast, before someone really did see him with the truck.

Stan silenced the yells of protest coming from his conscience, begging him to turn around and avoid incriminating himself any further than he already had. But that wouldn’t work. What would his story be when Detective Yates threatened him with handcuffs? How could he twist his own words into the minds of witnesses and manage to convince them that he was innocent? It seemed almost as impossible as the universe granting him a wish. They would never hear him. They would take one look at him – everything he’d done – and throw him in with the rest of Colorado’s criminals. His image, not that he had much of one to begin with, would be tainted with accusations that he could never disprove. Everything would be ruined. But as ruined as Stan already painted himself to be, he couldn’t let that happen. 

He grabbed the handle of Scott’s truck, ripping open the driver’s side door. The overhead lights faded on, and Stan stumbled back in horror. The front seat was covered with dark red blood, dried and stained into the fabric. It spread all across the center console and Scott’s steering wheel, even stuck on the glass of the windshield. Stan covered his mouth and nose with the back of his hand, as a pungent odor smelling of rust violated his senses. He turned away, resisting the urge to puke as his stomach coiled in on itself.

He backed away far enough so the smell was aired out by the rain, finally lowering his arm and staring into the truck. All of that crimson was once flowing through a live human being, a human being who Stan considered a friend. That was Scott’s blood. That was Scott, right in front of him. 

He spared another glance around the neighborhood, and towards his front porch. He was still in the clear, but he couldn’t rely on that being the case for much longer. The sky was already beginning to break with the light of dawn, time was running out. He needed to move fast. So, Stan did the only thing he could think of doing. He held his breath in his throat and climbed into the truck, shutting the door behind him. He let out a wretched whimper, suddenly aware that he was sitting in a puddle of all that was left behind from Scott’s murder. He gulped down the bile which threatened to escape his mouth, acid burning his esophagus as it was forced back down. His hands trembled as he hovered them over the steering wheel, deathly hesitant to grasp it. There was blood all over the front and sides, covering the Ford logo with a sheer red tint. 

Stan shut his eyes, remembering that his window of opportunity was quickly closing, and that time was running thin. He was about to reach under the dashboard, aiming to hotwire the engine and get the truck started, before he realized that he didn’t have to. The keys were dangling from the ignition switch, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. 

He snapped his eyes forward, blinking back tears as his teeth sank into his bottom lip. Stan shut his eyes softly, chest shuddering with heaving breaths on the brink of hyperventilation. He grabbed the keys with stiff fingers, twisting them forward and listening to the engine rumble with power. The truck’s headlights blinked on, reflecting across the back of his jeep. He couldn’t let himself think about the reality of what he was doing. He had to pretend like this was his own car, and that this was just another one of his late night drives. His mind was cluttered with worry, he just wanted it to disappear. That’s all this was. Just another drive.

Stan reopened his eyes with newfound clarity, muscles relaxing as he rested his hand around the gear shift. He pressed the button and moved it down into reverse, sneaker weighing on the brake pedal when the truck began to move. Finger by finger, he clutched the side of the steering wheel and guided it following the path of his driveway, spinning it around when it was time to turn. The sound of Scott’s old tires crunching over gravel was barely heard, blanketed by a rumble of thunder. Stan braked in the middle of the street, hesitating for a moment, just a moment, before pushing the gear shift into drive. With an iron grip on the wheel, placing his hands near 10 and 2, Stan eased the truck into a steady speed down the street. 

Every little movement had his eyes snapping around, dreading the moment where someone would flag him down and accuse him of murder, or where a cop would pull him over for accidentally speeding. Stan realized he did that a lot. He had a heavy foot when it came to driving, usually not bothering to pay attention to the speedometer until he was already doing above 70. He’d been ticketed more times than he could count, but Randy always came through with the money to pay for them. Not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he couldn’t fathom his football star of a son having a bad police record. Stan had a scar for each ticket he received, Randy’s ‘words of encouragement’ prompting him to follow the opposite. He was caught and arrested at a party last year, and Randy had no choice but to suspend him from the team. He had been furious when he picked Stan up from the police station, and even though the damage had already been done, Randy never let him feel the end of it. 

Stan hated that he’d occupied his mind with memories of Randy’s abuse, but it was the only thing keeping him from having another panic attack. He was driving down his street at a steady twenty-five, tense and on edge. His arms were beginning to shake from how hard he strained his grip, muscles contracting in a statue-like manner. 

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t even know what he was doing. Stan’s main objective was to get Scott’s truck out of his driveway, which he had done. But now what? Does he ditch it somewhere? Stash it in a parking lot? 

No. Someone could find it. Someone would find it, and the police would swab the seats for DNA and Stan would be arrested before the end of the week. He couldn’t risk that. He had to find another way. He slowed the truck to a stop at the end of the street, keeping his foot on the brake and wracking his brain trying to think of a good place to go. 

When it dawned on him, Stan felt the first sliver of hope he’d had in hours. He turned the wheel to the right and floored the gas. Stark’s Pond. 

It was perfect. Stan could drive the truck into the lake, and– and no one would ever know! The cops had already searched the area, they’d never think to go back and look for evidence, they already had everything they could have possibly found! It was a foolproof plan! 

He watched the road ahead with determined eyes, faith shining in light blue. Stark’s Pond was less than fifteen minutes from his house, an easy destination to reach, especially with so many backroads. He could avoid the busy streets and no one would ever see him. No one would ever know. 

Those fifteen minutes had felt like endless and agonizing hours, Stan could have sworn the numbers on the clock of Scott’s radio were the exact same every time he looked at them. It filled him with excruciating dread, desperation mauled its way through his mind like a rabid animal, tearing apart his conscience with knife-like claws. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to close his eyes and open them in his bed, sprawled out over navy sheets that hadn’t been washed. He wanted to drown in the familiar scent of his bedroom, a comfort zone for anything and everything Stan had ever felt. 

Someone did this. Someone who wanted to throw Stan under the bus, incriminate him for a reason only god knew of. He remembered the phone call, the one he’d received in the parking lot of Sizzler’s just last night. The stranger with Scott’s phone had repeated their words from their first talk, followed by what Stan interpreted as a threat. That hadn’t been a dream either. If it was, Stan would have woken up by now. 

He had no doubt in his shattered mind that the stranger was the one behind this. His theories had only before been in their early stages, but now Stan was dead set on that same stranger being Scott’s killer. There was no other explanation as to how they would have gotten a hold of Scott’s keys, considering that the truck itself had yet to turn up for evidence. It had to be true. Stan was there that night, the truck would have certainly been found if it hadn’t been purposely moved. 

Scott’s headlights shone over the Stark’s Pond sign, a hand carved wooden arrow pointing to the lake. Stan checked to make sure that there were no other cars in the parking lot, that he was the only one there. It was pouring rain, he doubted anyone would be out jogging in this kind of weather, even those determined enough to run in the cold. Stan stopped the truck just before grass met sand, staring at the rippling surface of water which stretched for a mile over the park. He loosened his fingers before regripping the steering wheel, refusing to second-guess himself. This was his only choice. Either ditch the truck or rot in prison. 

Stan pressed his foot onto the gas pedal, driving over the small beach that surrounded only one side of the lake. In the summer, Stark’s Pond was the most popular spot in all of South Park. There were events that frequented the park, including outdoor movies and fourth of July celebrations. When Stan was younger, and when Shelley was still living there, he and his family would watch the fireworks reflect over the water, exploding in the sky with colorful bouts of light. It was a memory he held onto with a fond feeling. It had been years since the last time they did anything as a family. 

Stan turned the wheel towards a dock that ran out to the center of the lake, the end marking where the sand bank sloped into a deeper area. People would tie their fishing boats to the posts there in the summer, Stan’s uncle Jimbo used to take him out every weekend, teaching him all the basics and works of the man’s favorite sport. After Jimbo died, Stan never touched a fishing pole again. 

Rain pelted the dock and created puddles on the wooden panels, reflecting a clap of lightning that brightened the beach. Stan drove carefully over the dock, the truck itself only barely making it without running off the sides. Anxiety crawled up his chest the further he got to the end, but he couldn’t turn back now. 

Once he was far enough, Stan pressed the brakes, giving himself plenty of time and room to move. He double checked his surroundings, making sure nothing of his was left behind. Concluding that he was in the clear, Stan moved the gear shift into neutral. He reached for the handle of the driver’s side door, stepping back out into the storm. The sky was beginning to lighten, but the clouds remained dark and ominous. 

Stan rounded the side of the truck, barely thinking twice before he pressed his palms against the tail bed, pushing the vehicle closer to the lake. He mustered up as much strength as he could, the rest of his life depended on whether or not he could do this. The truck rolled over the wood and off the edge of the dock, delving front first into the water. The impact created a splash which was just as easily concealed from the rain, as it sank beneath the surface. Stan watched it go down, shoulders heaving up and down while he tried to vanquish his anxiety, sucking in breaths of cold wet air. 

His hair was soaked. His jacket was drenched. His pants were a darker color, sticking to his legs while they squelched every time he moved. Stan waited until the truck completely disappeared, the murky lake now harboring a dark secret. 

“STAN!” A voice had yelled beside him, coaxing him out of his thoughts. He turned to Kyle in his passenger’s seat, staring at him like he was the physical embodiment of the word stupid. “We’re gonna be late, dumbass! Move the car!”

Stan’s mouth hung open slightly, eyes wide while his brain tried to process what was going on. He had been sitting in Kyle’s driveway for ten minutes, waiting for the redhead to get dressed. He guessed that he had spaced out, lost track of time. Stan supposed that that was pretty typical for someone who just sunk a vehicle in a lake. 

“Sorry.” Stan breathed, his voice barely above a whisper as he backed out from the space, turning onto the road of Kyle’s neighborhood. 

His skin still stung from how hard he scrubbed it in the shower, water scorched his limbs with the highest temperature to ensure that he would be clean. Despite standing in the tub for nearly twenty minutes, endlessly scraping the grime and sweat off of him, Stan still felt dirty. He still felt heavy with the weight of what he had done, Scott’s blood not only staining his clothes and skin, but his conscience too. 

He couldn’t even close his eyes. Every time he did, he saw it, the image of the truck’s interior, splattered with crimson. He smelled it, the stench of rust and rotting dead cells, burned into his memory. It was terrifying. It wracked his being with trepidation, wondering if maybe someone had seen him. He’d checked the lake, there were no cars, and the rain ensured that he was truly alone, but— what if he wasn’t? 

“What’s wrong with you?” Came Kyle’s voice again, curious and accusing at the same time. 

Stan paid him a half second glance, blinking and staring back at the road ahead. He’d eased his grip on the wheel since they left the driveway, but everything still felt so out of place. 

He had to act normal. He had to keep suspicion off him. Deny, deny, deny — the exact words he’d heard from Clyde when they got busted at the party last year. Of course, they didn’t stick, Stan broke the second his father stepped into the room to aid his interrogation. That was probably the reason why he was the only one arrested, Clyde having the luxury of walking free. This, however, was different. Worlds apart from the kind of trouble he got into for smoking weed at sixteen. Stan just destroyed a crucial piece of evidence that the police were looking for. He’d ruined their chance of developing any sort of lead towards who might have killed Scott, all because he didn’t want to go to jail. 

But, it was too late now. The damage was done. His only option now was to deny. 

Deny, deny, deny.

“The hell are you talking about?” He finally answered, hardening his voice until he sounded normal. He watched, through his peripheral vision, as Kyle cocked a brow. 

“…I’m talking about the fact that you just died and went to hell in my driveway?” The redhead jutted his thumb in the direction back towards his house. “If you’re the reason I’m late to class, I will be so beyond pissed—“

“We established the rules yesterday, did we not?” Stan cut him off, straining while trying to keep himself off Kyle’s radar of suspicion. “No talking. Shut the fuck up and let me drive.” 

Kyle sighed in annoyance, folding his arms over his chest and turning to look out the window. Stan noticed that Kyle resorted to doing that sort of thing a lot when he was angry. It was sort of a tell. 

The storm had finally died down, rain misting through the morning air while the sky was enveloped with a yellow hue. The roads were still slick and dangerous to speed on, but Stan really had no choice — they had ten minutes to get to school before the first bell rang. 

Needless to say, it was a close call. Stan and Kyle both rushed out of the jeep and towards the school, the only difference from yesterday being that they weren’t intending to race. Stan had gotten to the doors first, swinging them open and not bothering to hold them for Kyle. The redhead staggered back in order to keep his arm from getting crushed, catching the door by the handle and following in after him. Stan could feel the fire burning behind him, Kyle’s green stare lodging itself into his soul.

The hallways were crowded with students walking in each direction, heading to their first period classes. Stan walked straight through the school with a tight grip on his backpack strap, wondering how the hell he’d be able to keep up his appearance in front of his friends. Granted, he only had morning classes with Clyde and Craig, but they could just as easily spot something wrong with him. Stan was a good liar, he’d had various chances to practice on his parents, but his friends knew him better than that. If he wasn’t careful, they would see right through him, and everything he worked for would fall apart. He stood up straighter, shoulders aching from the strain of being stretched, avoiding the eyes of everyone who glanced at him. Only, the second his brain caught onto that, his shoulders slumped again. 

Stan locked eyes with every face he passed. He wasn’t imagining it, right? People were looking at him. But, people always looked at him, he was popular after all. But… this felt different. They stared at him as if he were a stranger wandering the halls, like he wasn’t supposed to be there. Did— did someone know? Did someone see him at the lake? Was the news already out? 

Stan couldn’t stop the panic swelling in his chest, blood rushing to his ears and instinctively causing him to walk faster. He kept his head down, staring at the lines of the tile floor as it whirred with motion in his wake. His heart palpitated wildly, echoing through his mind and pulse. Was Detective Yates waiting in his classroom? Was he going to be tackled and arrested? 

He needed to hide. If everyone knew, it would only be a matter of time before he was sent to jail. Fuck, was he going to have to flee the state? Pack a bag, live the rest of his life as a fugitive? Stan would take being homeless over living with his parents, but he would still take his parents over being a wanted man. He rounded a corner, stepping into the school’s main hall before freezing in place. Students loitered around the stairs and chatted, the room flooding with indecipherable voices. It was crowded. Why was it crowded? 

He glanced around, trying to find the quickest way out of the mess he was bound to walk through. Stan found the bathrooms across the hall, a light at the end of his treacherous tunnel. With a determined stride, he started towards them, weaving through a sea of people while trying not to draw attention.

An abrupt yet sweet aroma then filled his nostrils, a direct contrast to the rust and bitterness which had been seared into his memory. Stan didn’t dare avert his gaze from the bathroom door, even when a familiar blonde stepped into his view. He was forced to stop, barely avoiding a collision. 

“Stan!” Bebe greeted, wearing an enthusiastic smile. “Guess what day it is?”

Stan exhaled sharply, gripping his backpack strap with an immense amount of force. The rough material was beginning to dig into his palm, leaving indentations in his skin. “Bebe, I don’t–”

“It’s bake sale day!” Bebe nearly squealed, grabbing a hold of Stan’s arm and dragging him through the crowd. Stan wanted to let go, yank back his hand and dart towards the bathrooms, but that would be suspicious now that Bebe knew he was there. 

She led him over to the staircase, stopping in front of a long table with a bright orange sign hanging off the front. Some of the girls from the cheerleading team sat behind it, exchanging the baked goods for cash from the students. There were boxes of neatly squared brownies, muffins, cookies shaped like pumpkins, and three full sized containers of apple pie sprawled out over the surface. Stan’s mind was still seeing crimson, but the smell of the sweet pastries seemed to calm down his overbearing hysteria, allowing him a few seconds to calm down.

Bebe grabbed a single pumpkin cookie from the box, holding it in her palm while she turned back to him. “Here. I know I said we weren’t giving them out, but… after the week we had, I think it’s the least we could do.”

Despite his racing thoughts, Stan managed to smile, recalling back to when he’d hung flyers for the bake sale. He couldn’t believe that it had already been a week since then. “...Thanks, Bebe.”

She beamed at him while he grabbed the cookie from her hand. Stan knew that if he took one bite of it he’d puke, but he had no other choice. Bebe would probably scold him for refusing it, which would lead to more suspicion. 

Although, as Stan looked at Bebe, and the rest of the crowd, he noticed something. The stares were different now. They were no longer void of mercy, void of life like they were picking him apart on an autopsy table. Now, they were genuine. Bebe’s smile was the same one he’d see every day, the same one she’d wear when talking to Clyde. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was still in the clear. 

“Well?!” Bebe chuckled with a playful yet impatient tone, waiting for Stan to try the cookie. 

He rolled his eyes with a smirk, biting into the thick coat of frosting and chewy dough. It was a blast of sugar against his tongue, taste buds jolting at the sudden sweet taste. There was a hint of pumpkin spice, given for a fall themed treat, a flavor that Stan had always enjoyed. It was good. Really good, but that could also be the pit of hunger talking in his stomach. He didn’t exactly stick around for breakfast that morning. 

“Wow. Congrats for not fuckin’ up the recipe.” He quipped, surprising himself with the normalcy of his words. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all. Maybe he was just overthinking. 

Bebe punched his shoulder, just as she did when they’d been hanging posters last Tuesday. She laughed as Stan took another bite, but the moment was interrupted by the bell. It rang throughout the hall and kicked the students back into gear, as they all began scrambling off in different directions. 

“See you at lunch!” Bebe said as she turned back to the table. Stan waved goodbye to the rest of the cheerleaders, spinning on his heel and heading off to class. Not to the bathrooms, not anymore, he was confident that everything was fine. It had to be, he’d been walking through the school for a whole five minutes and he hadn’t seen Detective Yates. Nobody was out to arrest him, he was safe. 

He was safe.

Stan finished the last bite of the pumpkin cookie, wiping his hands together to rid his fingers of any crumbs. The door to his calculus classroom was wide open, inviting everyone in that wasn’t late. He entered the room behind another student, immediately laying eyes on his friends. Clyde and Craig sat towards the back of the room, conversing quietly. Stan dropped his bag next to his desk, sitting one row in front of them.

“…Hey, dude.” Clyde greeted, his tone soft with caution. 

Stan paused. He didn’t feel like he was acting weird, not anymore, but maybe Clyde had noticed something. He glanced at Craig, who as usual donned an unreadable expression. Not helpful. 

“What’s up?” Stan asked, eyebrows furrowing in a desperate act to appear oblivious. 

Clyde shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaning over his desk and nodding his head at Craig. Craig, who had actually smiled lightly at the brunette boy, sat up straight.

“Did you hear from Scott’s mom yet? About his funeral?” He asked. 

Stan was taken aback by this, not remembering getting any kind of call from Scott’s mother. But maybe he just tried to reach him at a bad time. A bad time being when he was pushing her dead son’s truck into Stark’s Pond. 

“No,” He replied, shaking his head. “No, not yet. When is it?”

“Tomorrow at four. South Park Cemetery.” Craig said, an obvious hint of reluctance in his voice.

Clyde jumped in, inhaling sharply. “You’re coming, right Stan?”

“Of course, Clyde.” Stan assured the brunette, thankful that he wasn’t the one responsible for the uneasiness in the room. Clyde smiled, and the tension instantly dissipated. It was getting easier and easier for Stan to breathe – finally, his chest didn’t feel like it was being crushed by itself. His shoulders felt lighter, and his thoughts had mollified. He only hoped the rest of the day would go by quickly. 

He spun around to face forward, digging through his backpack for his calculus book. 

“Dude.” Craig called to him, beckoning for his attention. Stan hummed, answering with a turn to face him. Craig jutted his chin out towards him, eyes fixated on his arm. “You good?”

Stan followed his gaze, trying to find something that would call attention to himself. Something other than his internal secrets. “Yeah, why?”

Clyde had also seemed to notice whatever it was that Craig was referring to, because he too pointed to a spot on Stan’s arm. Specifically, his jacket.

“You cut yourself or something?” He asked, eyebrows clasped together with slight concern. 

Registering Clyde’s words, Stan felt the exact moment his heart had stopped beating. Immediately, he grabbed the sleeve on his right bicep, turning it over to find a patch of crimson dried into the fabric. His own blood ran cold, draining from his already clammy complexion. Stan had spent twenty minutes scrubbing Scott’s blood off his skin, but he had forgotten to check his jacket for any leftover residue. 

Shit.

Stan had nearly knocked over his chair from how fast he stood up, bolting across the room and out the door, ignoring his friends’ voices calling after him. He barely dodged a collision with another student entering the room, muttering a swift apology before rushing off. His sneakers squeaked over the tile as he darted straight for the main hall, passing the staircase just as the late bell began ringing. It sounded so much louder in his ears, echoing through his bones and mocking the emptiness in his mind. 

He all but slammed himself against the door to the bathrooms, stumbling in and heading for the sink. Stan didn’t even wait to check if the stalls were empty, he was too desperate. He ripped his jacket off his body, yanking the faucet handle until a stream of water began running. The world around him turned quiet, the sound of water muffled like he had been standing in another room. He knew he was going into shock, probably for the second time that day, but Stan could barely feel it. He couldn’t feel when his forehead became damp with sweat, he couldn’t even feel the way his heart beat against his ribs with a piercing force. 

He bunched his jacket up and shoved it into the sink, wetting the blood spot before turning to the soap dispenser. Stan pushed up his hoodie sleeves, pumping the dispenser as many times as he could before the substance was leaking over his hand, dripping onto the floor with how little room he had left in his palm. He smacked the glob of soap onto his jacket, digging his nails into the fabric and scrubbing furiously. He grit his teeth trying to push through the growing ache in his arm, watching the blood gradually lighten until it matched closely with the green again. 

He didn’t stop, however. Not even when his fingers began to cramp up, or when blurry tears brimmed the bottoms of his eyes. He continued scrubbing his hand back and forth, the water was steaming from reaching its hottest temperature, but Stan couldn’t feel that either. His skin turned red as it burned, just as it did in the shower that morning. He didn’t care. He needed to clean up his mess. He needed to cover his tracks. One little slip up and he’d be rotting behind bars for the rest of his life. 

Eventually, he had to stop. His arm produced a sharp pain which had him recoiling from the sink, cradling it to his chest. The faucet still ran, washing away the soap and wetting the jacket again. Stan wiped his other hand over his eyes, clearing his vision before taking a deep breath. Several, actually, his chest heaved up and down while he struggled to catch any air. It felt like he had been struck in the back, gotten the wind knocked out of him and wasn’t able to inhale. Everything hurt, but there was no pain. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. 

Stan released a choked cry, stepping away until his back collided with a stall divider. He gripped his aching hand with so much strength he was afraid he’d end up snapping the bone. He guessed the universe allowed him some stroke of good luck, considering that there was no one in the bathrooms during his breakdown. He couldn’t afford anyone seeing him cry, let alone possessing evidence that linked him to Scott Malkinson’s murder.  

His knees buckled underneath his weight, causing him to slide down onto the floor. Stan made no effort to get back up, waiting for the shock and devastation to pass before he even thought about it. 

What would his friends think, when his mugshot appeared on the news and he was labeled to be an accomplice of murder? That’s what he was, wasn’t he? An accomplice. He had knowingly covered up evidence which had been tampered with, just because he wanted to avoid jail time. What kind of person was he?

When Stan’s arm finally stopped hurting, he slowly climbed to his feet. The faucet had been running this whole time, his entire jacket now soaked with the same water used to clean off Scott’s blood. In his eyes, that was even worse. Reluctantly, he pushed the faucet off, lifting up the jacket and watching the pink water drip into the sink. He couldn’t even notice where the patch of blood had been to begin with, but maybe that was for the better. If he didn’t notice it, then no one else could. Right?

Stan wrung out the excess water with shaky hands, sighing when all he had now was a sore hand and a soaking wet jacket. Where would he put it? It wasn’t like he could just put it on and wear it back to class, there was no possible way it would dry in time. He could stuff it in his locker, but the lack of air might cause it to grow mold. 

Sighing, he walked over to the trash can and held the jacket over it, debating whether or not it would work out. It wouldn’t, he’d decided, since his last name was printed on the back, it would easily be identifiable. Stan wouldn’t be able to deny it, his personal football number was also right below it. So, the only reasonable choice he had was to put it in his locker. Even with the risk of mold. 

He folded the jacket over his arm, checking his reflection to make sure he was normal enough to be seen by other students. His face still looked pale, but that was an easy lie. He could just say he got sick and threw up, no big deal. As for the sweat and puffy eyes, he could add some good old fashioned grief onto that. He was fine. He was still fine. Craig and Clyde both assumed that the blood was his, meaning no one suspected him of anything. Not yet, at least. 

He was still in the clear. He was fine. 

Stan took another deep breath, one that actually succeeded in calming his nerves. He tousled his hair with a still wet hand, fluffing up the strands until he looked like himself again. Satisfied, he turned back towards the door, heading into the hallway again. Only, he wasn’t necessarily paying attention to where he was going, eyes fixated on the clothing draped over his arm. 

He bumped into someone before he had the chance to move. “Shit– sorry.”

Stan backed away, panicked eyes settling on a surprised Detective Yates. The gingered man smoothed out the wrinkles of his suit, composing himself before clearing his throat.

“That’s alright,” He said, offering Stan a reassuring smile. He noticed that Yates’ eyes still remained stoic. “Stanley Marsh. Just the guy I was looking for.”

Instantly, Stan froze. He swallowed, his throat suddenly drier than the Sahara desert. The Detective seemed to catch onto his fear, raising one of his hands placatingly. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. It’s common to forget about scheduled questioning, especially in your position.” He said, which had Stan furrowing his eyebrows instead.

Then, it dawned on him. He was supposed to be at the station that morning, to be interrogated about Scott. Yates had given him his card only yesterday, but Stan had been so sidetracked – with much higher priorities – to remember the time. 

Stan sighed, partly with annoyance, and partly with relief, considering he wasn’t about to be arrested. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, I– I lost track of time this morning–” 

“That’s alright, son. That’s why I’m here now.” Yates said, subtly hinting that Stan was going to be interrogated right now. 

That caused him to pale again. He was in no condition for this, if Yates asked him one thing he would crack immediately. Stan needed time to cool off, to fucking think rationally for a few minutes. He had to get out of this and he had to do it now. 

So, he switched on his best lying tone and started spewing bullshit. “Um, actually if– if it’s okay, sir, I’d like to just reschedule for another day. I just, I– I don’t feel well right now, and I’m worried that I might be catching something.” 

To his dismay, however, Yates cocked a brow. He huffed out a breath, placing his hands on his hips. “You want to reschedule your questioning?” 

Stan tightened his hands into fists, concealing them under his jacket. He prayed, hard, that he could get out of this without raising suspicion. “...Yes.” 

Yates stared at him for what felt like an entire minute, before nodding curtly. “Fine. Does tomorrow morning work?” 

Stan nodded immediately. Good enough. That gave him plenty of time. “Absolutely. Thank you, Detective.” 

Yates mirrored his movements, glancing down at the sopping wet jacket in his arms. Stan prayed again that he wouldn’t ask, but the universe was out of luck for him already.

“What happened there?” He questioned, his tone laced with a slight condescending note. 

Stan blinked, smiling sheepishly. “Spilled some fruit punch.” 

“At seven-thirty in the morning?” Yates asked, and Stan wondered if the man raised that eyebrow every day or if it was just an ego thing. 

“Sugar is a great source of energy.” He subtly challenged, gaining newfound confidence he certainly didn't have five minutes ago. 

Yates stared at him again, probably looking for any sign that disproved Stan’s words. But what grounds would he manifest his theories on? He didn’t have anything to accuse him of, it didn’t matter if he was suspicious or not. If he knew about Stark’s Pond, Stan would have already been in jail. As long as he didn’t slip up, Yates would have no idea.

The Detective only hummed, relaxing his shoulders as he began his walk down the hall. “Don’t forget this time, yeah kid?”

“Got it!” Stan called back, probably a little too eagerly, but even he couldn’t blame himself for that. He couldn’t believe he just got away with lying to a cop. Under different circumstances, that would certainly boost his image. 

“I see you didn’t kill Marsh after all. Good job, dude.” Kenny commended, as Kyle took a seat down next to him at their usual lunch table. 

The blonde had pushed away his food to make room for a notebook instead, his cheeseburger only half eaten and left discarded on his food tray. Cartman and Tweek had already claimed their spots next to one another, Butters choosing to take the seat at the head of the table. 

Kyle rolled his eyes, opening a small bag of doritos which had come with his lunch. He recalled back to his drive to school, one that had been less awkward than yesterday’s, but still damn near insufferable, especially with Stan’s strange behavior. Kyle found himself staring across the cafeteria at Stan’s table, watching the ravenette laugh with his friends. 

“Yeah, but something was up with him this morning. He was acting weird.” He said, popping a chip into his mouth. Of course, Stan could have just been tired, but that still didn’t explain the reason why he looked so scared. 

Kyle remembered finally breaking him out of his trance, the way he’d turned to him with widened eyes and a look that nearly sent a shiver down his spine. But within a second, it was gone. Like nothing had even happened. He didn’t think being tired caused that sort of behavior. 

This piqued Kenny’s interest, as he looked up from his notes. “Weird how?”

Kyle shrugged one of his shoulders. “Well– I mean, not that I even remotely give a shit, but he was just acting weird. Like, he sat in my driveway for ten minutes, just… staring. I called his name like five times, kept reminding him that we were gonna be late, but he was really out of it.”

“Hm. That is weird.” Kenny hummed, turning back to his paper. “Not that I care either.”

Cartman didn’t even finish chewing his food before opening his mouth. “He’s probably drunk, Kahl. That asshole’s always either so shitfaced he can’t see straight, or so hungover to the point where he’s lying over the school toilets all morning.”

“Yeah.” Kyle said, glancing back over to the other table. Stan was acting normal now, not drunk, not as far as he could tell, but completely different from that morning. “I guess you’re right.” 

“He was at Sizzler’s last night with Wendy. I think they were fighting, he was yelling at her before he stormed off.” Kenny mentioned nonchalantly, scribbling something down in his notes.

“How do you know?” Kyle asked.

“I was their waiter,” Kenny scrunched his nose up with disgust. “He shoved me into the bar on his way out.”

“What?!” Kyle had to lower his voice before he was caught yelling. “Are you fucking serious?!”

Cartman scoffed. “Calm down mother hen, Kinny’s clearly fine.” 

Kyle let out an incredulous chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “My god, I might actually kill him this time.”

“Stan Marsh isn’t worth a murder charge, Kyle! Best to let it go!” Tweek said, spinning his cheeseburger in his hands, probably trying to find the best place to bite into. 

“I second that.” Kenny agreed, nodding in approval. 

Kyle clenched and unclenched his fists, staring across the room with a twinge of anger in his stare. “It’s like I find a new reason to hate him every day.” 

“Well, Stan usually has that kind of effect on people, Kyle.” Butters said, pulling out his packed lunch from his bag. The redhead shrugged at this, absolutely not disagreeing. 

The cafeteria grew louder as the lunch period dragged on. It was considered to be the closest thing to recess any high schooler had, the only excusable time to be rowdy with friends. Kyle’s group ate their food in a comfortable sort of silence, yet not missing the empty spot at their table. 

Kyle’s eyes lingered on Scott’s designated seat. He could have sworn he could almost see his silhouette every time he blinked. It wasn’t every day that he sat with them, having to rotate between friend two friend groups meant that he couldn’t always be around. But every time he did, it was like nothing had changed. Scott brought life to their group, more than anyone else did. Kyle thinks he was going to miss that the most. 

“Are you guys going to Scott’s funeral tomorrow?” He found himself asking, puncturing the wall of silence around their table. He didn’t know why that was even a question, Kyle already knew the answer. He just– needed to be sure. He needed to be sure that everyone would be there. If not for themselves, for a small amount of closure, then for Scott and his family.

“Why wouldn’t we, dude?!” Tweek answered, staring at Kyle as if he’d just admitted to something horrible. The rest of his friends turned to him as well donning confused looks. Even Cartman looked at him like he was crazy, even if it was subtle. 

“I… I don’t know, I guess I’m still just…” Kyle trailed off, losing his words mid-sentence. He placed his doritos bag on the table, sighing. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

Kenny gave him a once over, waiting until their friends returned back to eating before furthering the conversation. He nudged Kyle’s shoulder, lowering his voice to talk to him privately.

“You okay, dude?” He asked. “You sound upset. You sounded upset over the phone, too.”

Kyle shot him a quick smile, backtracking himself to avoid overthinking. He remembered his phone call with Kenny yesterday, after Ike had scared him half to death he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. 

“I was just stressed.” He eventually answered. “Sorry for blowing up on you.”

Kenny shrugged with a lopsided grin. “All good. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Cartman had unfortunately overheard this, pausing to interrupt before he took another bite of his food. “Aww, young gay love! You guys know pride month is over, right?” 

Kenny snapped his eyes towards the boy, narrowed with a hateful glare. “Choose your words carefully, fatass, because whatever you say next will be the deciding factor of whether or not you get to have an open casket funeral.”

Tweek giggled beside him along with Butters, much to Cartman’s dismay. Kyle only smiled at their antics. 

Another storm had rolled in after fourth period, flooding the town with more rain that they certainly didn’t need. The roads were still wet, and the sky was barely given a break from the cover of dark clouds. The time felt later than it actually had been when Kyle left his last class of the day, pulling out his phone to text Stan. They hadn’t exchanged numbers yet, not since they had last stopped being friends, but it wasn’t hard to ask around for the quarterback’s number. Kyle guessed that half the school had Stan’s contact in their phone, which was wildly unnecessary. 

Kenny had gotten stuck behind another student, having to wait for them to move before catching back up with Kyle. 

“You sure you don’t need me to stick around? I don’t mind.” He said, walking shoulder to shoulder with the redhead as they made their way down the hall. 

Kyle typed out a quick message to Stan, letting him know that he’d be in the library instead of sitting on the bleachers like last time. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of getting drenched while he waited for the boy to get done with practice, but maybe with the comfort of the storm he’d actually be able to focus. Yesterday, Kenny had distracted him with his theories on Scott’s killer, which had hardened his mind enough to cause him to spiral. Not today. He’d managed to finish his English essay on time to turn it in, but now he had a world history test to study for. 

To: Stan: I t’s Kyle. I ’m going to the library.

“I’ll be fine Kenny.” Kyle reassured the blonde, glancing up from his phone in time to dodge around a group of students walking towards him. “I really need to study, anyway. I’ll be able to focus more if you’re not there. No offense.”

Kenny tsked. “Only a slight amount taken, but I get it.” He said, earning a scoff and a smile from the shorter boy next to him. “Just text me if you need saving.” 

“I don’t need saving, I can handle Stan myself.” Kyle said, lifting up his phone to read the message which Stan sent back. 

From: Stan: ok?

“…As long as he doesn’t push me over the edge.” He finished, rolling his eyes at the text before sliding his phone back into his pocket. 

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re lying?” Kenny asked, tone pitching up with playfulness, but Kyle knew he was being genuine. 

He stopped in front of the library doors, facing the taller boy. “Trust me. If I was lying, I’d be in jail right now. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. I’ll pretend to believe you.” Kenny teased, lips curving upwards into a smirk. “Seriously though, if he gives you any shit let me know. I’m not afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid of him either, dude.” Kyle insisted, growing annoyed with the conversation. He hated when Kenny acted like this. “I’m fine. Go home and take a fucking nap or something.”

Kenny only rolled his eyes, turning back around and finally leaving. “I’ll consider it!”

Kyle exhaled a long sigh, waiting for him to round the corner of the hallway before heading into the library. He could hear a faint rumble of thunder sound from outside, just as the rain began to drop with higher intensity. It pounded against the roof with pattering thuds, building up into torrential showers. Kyle wondered if it would ever end, or if the storm would last into the next day as well. He supposed he would rather have rain than snow, but he hated having to close his windows at night to avoid flooding his bedroom. 

He set his eyes on a table near the back of the room, along a tall wall of window panes displaying the side yard of the school. Part of a parking lot could be seen from where he sat, one that teachers and staff would use which was off limits to students. Kyle spotted a few teachers he recognized as they rushed to their cars, trying not to get soaked. He could only stare through the window for so long until the raindrops obstructed his view. 

Kyle pulled his laptop out of his backpack, setting it on the table along with his history books. He’d been learning about The Art of War, his teacher assigning a certain amount of pages to read before his class would be quizzed on it. Kyle was over halfway through the book, finding the subject to be mildly interesting compared to the other topics in his history class. He had until Friday to finish it completely before the test, which was already plenty of time. And now since he was forced to stay after school for an hour and a half each day, he figured he would use it wisely. 

He opened his laptop and powered it on, pulling up a study guide he’d made based on the most important points of the book. He’d sent it to Kenny as well, since the boy had horrible study habits. Kenny was the type to procrastinate, there had been countless days where Kyle would see him rush to finish his homework before class started. Luckily, he’d gotten better with it over the years, although Kyle still had to remind him when things were due. 

Kyle flipped the pages of his book open to the last one he’d left off on, taking out his bookmark and setting it aside. A clap of lightning lit up the sky, flashing over the windows next to him. It was getting darker by the minute, even when the clock hadn’t yet stuck four. The storm clouds had been at fault for that one. 

Kyle indulged himself in his work until his eyes began to hurt, the brightness of his computer screen causing an ache to bloom in his forehead. He managed to finish the study guide with very little effort, having already looked it over once before. It wasn’t long until he found himself bored, opting to distract himself with something else instead. Kyle noticed the photos button on his task bar, pulling up his camera roll with images he’d hadn’t looked at in months. 

The first one that popped up was a screenshot of a meme he’d taken a few months ago, one that probably made him laugh back then, but now it barely even urged a smile out of him. The second was another screenshot, of another meme taken under the same circumstances. As Kyle continued scrolling, he noticed that almost all of his pictures were memes of some kind. There were a few strays, like a picture of a meal he and Ike had cooked by themselves for Mother’s Day the year prior, backed up to the cloud from his cellphone. He chuckled at the memory, and Sheila’s reaction when she’d woken up that morning. 

Kyle scrolled again, eyes landing on a picture that made his heart drop. 

It was a group photo of him, Cartman, Butters, Tweek, and Kenny, all gathered around Kyle’s laptop at his desk in his bedroom. It would have been a normal picture to him, if everything that had happened in the past week, didn’t. Scott’s smiling face stood out against the rest, holding two fingers up behind Kyle’s head to make it look like he had bunny ears. It was a stupid and corny thing to do, and Kyle remembered Scott getting ripped on by Cartman after the photo had been taken. 

It was almost like he could see the image move in front of his eyes, replaying the memory in live time. He could hear Scott’s boisterous laughter mixed with his own, Cartman’s grating voice pulling every insult from the book, even Tweek and Butters’ voices while they reprimanded the boy for being mean. Kyle remembered that exact moment, but he couldn’t remember the day it had happened. It pained him, crushed his soul when he realized that he would never get to see Scott smile again. He would never hear his laugh, never hear him make a joke, ever again. 

“Know thy enemy.” 

Kyle jumped when an unfamiliar voice prompted him out of his thoughts. He grabbed his computer screen, instinctively turning it further towards himself. He looked up, meeting the eyes of a boy he didn’t recognize. 

“Sorry?” He said, still reeling from being startled. 

The boy grabbed the back of the seat across from Kyle, pulling it out from the table to claim it for himself. Kyle took note of his appearance; a tanned complexion with defined features, cropped black hair that matched the color of his shirt – a black and white baseball tee with half sleeves. 

“Sun Tzu,” The boy said, jutting his chin out towards the book on Kyle’s side of the table. “Famous for a reason, right?” 

The redhead narrowed his eyes, unable to sense where the conversation was going. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The boy paused for a moment, mouth opening and closing while he fumbled to find the correct words. Kyle’s skeptic expression only hardened the longer he took. 

The boy turned up his lips with a charming smile. “Forgive me, I’m… not the greatest with first impressions.” He said, pushing one of his hands out across the table. “I’m David. I just moved here from Boise.”

Kyle instantly relaxed, upon realizing that he was only talking to a new student. He had been caught during a vulnerable moment, which caused him to become defensive, but he offered the boy a smile as his own apology.

“Da-veed,” He parroted, testing the name out on his tongue before he took the other boy’s hand, shaking it in greeting. “That’s cool. I like it.” 

David shrugged one of his shoulders, nonchalantly. “It’s a family name. My father, his father, and every other man before us.” 

Kyle nodded, interest sparking within his eyes. “Well– I’m Kyle. I’ve.. lived here my whole life.”

He felt so boring saying that, but it was true. His mother was born in New Jersey, but after marrying and wanting to settle down, she and Gerald had moved to a smaller town that was fit for a single family. South Park was the perfect town to raise children in. 

“Does that mean I can rely on you if I have any questions?” David asked, again pulling out that charming smile of his. Kyle couldn’t help but return it with his own, albeit much more sheepish.

“I guess.” He said, closing The Art of War and pushing it off to the side. He watched David as his chocolate brown eyes had followed. “You like world history, huh?”

“I prefer it over any other subject, if that counts.” David answered, leaning his elbows over the table. He looked at Kyle, with an expression he couldn’t quite catch. “...But if you’re in my class, it would be much more enjoyable.”

At this, Kyle’s eyebrows immediately shot up. He huffed through his nose, the sound coming out as more of a scoff rather than a laugh. “Was that a pickup line?”

David shrunk in on himself slightly, cringing back at Kyle’s reaction. “...That depends if I got the wrong idea or not.” He said, quietly. “...Did I get the wrong idea?”

Kyle stifled a laugh with his palm, covering the bottom half of his face the moment he felt heat rise to his cheeks. He had a pretty good idea of what David was talking about, he just didn’t quite know how to respond. 

“No, you– you got the right idea.” Kyle chuckled, cursing his fair colored skin for failing so miserably at hiding his blush. “I just… wow, that– caught me off guard.” 

David laughed at him, a deep resounding noise that matched him completely well. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you flustered.” 

“No, it– it’s okay. I don’t mind.” Kyle brushed his hand through his hair, occupying himself by twisting one of the red strands between his fingers. “Um… how do you like it here so far? In South Park?”

David leaned back in his chair. “It’s a lot smaller than my hometown. By thousands, actually, but… it’s nice. I think I’m going to like it here.” 

Kyle smiled, finding himself enraptured by their conversation. “Was today your first day at the school?” 

David breathed out an airy laugh, scrunching up his nose with a bit of embarrassment. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, I don’t see you carrying a map and looking like a lost puppy, so, no.” Kyle said, a foreign feeling rising in his chest. “...But I’m glad you came up to me.” 

David smiled fully, his lips stretching to reveal a set of pearl-white teeth. “Me too.”

Kyle opened his mouth to ask something else, but someone cut him off before he could. 

“Broflovski.” 

Stan’s unmistakable voice cut through their conversation like nails on a chalkboard. Kyle turned to him, locking eyes with him while he stood at the head of their table. He was dressed in different clothing – probably a spare outfit for changing out of his uniform – a white long sleeved shirt with black joggers. 

“Let’s go.” He ordered tiredly, sparing David a singular glance before walking off. 

Kyle rolled his eyes, wanting nothing more than to stay and talk to David, a revelation which he himself had trouble believing, but he knew that Stan wouldn’t wait up for him. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be stuck walking home. He closed the lid of his computer and stuffed it inside his backpack. 

“Friend of yours?” David asked, cocking an eyebrow while he watched Stan leave the library.

“Far from it, actually.” Kyle replied, grabbing The Art of War and shoving it carelessly in a random pocket of his bag. When he was sure he had everything he came with, he stood up and turned to David. “I gotta go, but, it was nice meeting you.” 

David stood up as well, on beat with a roll of thunder and lightning from outside. This was the first time Kyle realized how tall he was, a little taller than Stan had been compared to himself. David had at least an extra few inches of height against the quarterback. 

“Uh– it was nice meeting you too. I’ll see you around, right?” He asked, catching Kyle’s eyes again. 

Kyle smiled. “Yeah. Definitely.” 

His gaze remained fixated on David for a little longer than he’d intended, before he was forced to turn around and leave. He barely missed walking into the edge of another table, sighing in relief when he’d avoided making a fool out of himself. He rushed out of the library and towards the closest exit, trying to remember where Stan’s parking spot was. His mind was… somewhere else right now. 

Kyle ducked his head down under the heavy rain, speed walking towards the jeep. Stan was already inside with the engine started. He wondered how fast the boy had to run in order to beat him there. He opened the door and climbed onto the passenger’s seat, shoving his backpack down between his feet while he buckled himself in. Immediately, his senses were warped with a brand new smell. He turned, immediately realizing that it was coming from Stan. The quarterback was clean of dirt and grime which would usually collect on his skin after practice, which meant that he had showered. Kyle tried to ignore the smell of his shampoo filtering through his senses, but the smell had dominated almost everything else around him. Stan’s hair smelled of eucalyptus and mint, undeniably fresh against the stuffy cold air. He would’ve liked it if it were coming from anyone else. 

“Who was that?” Stan casually asked, avoiding Kyle’s eyes while he strapped his seatbelt over his chest.

Kyle blinked, mildly surprised at his question, since Stan had paid close to no attention to David in the library. “Why do you care?”

The ravenette paused, for a moment that lasted less than a second, before starting the car. “I don’t. Never mind. No more talking.”

Kyle rolled his eyes, something that he did a lot around Stan.

Chapter Text

“Aww, did you guys make out and plan your wedding too?” 

Kyle almost missed a number on his combination lock, whipping around from his locker to face his brunette friend. 

“Shut up, fatass!” He yelled, before turning back to fish out one of his binders. “We just talked, that’s it!”

Kenny opened his own locker with ease, having the easiest code to memorize out of their group. Only Kyle knew what it was, because Kenny only trusted Kyle when it came to his belongings. 

“And who is this guy again?” He asked, emptying his backpack of unneeded books. 

Kyle resisted the urge to roll his eyes, sensing that sliver of protectiveness that laced Kenny’s tone. He hugged his biology binder close to his chest, leaning back against the wall of lockers. He couldn’t, however, resist the tender smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. 

“His name’s David, he just moved here from Idaho, and he likes world history.” He said, watching as Kenny’s eyebrow shot up with dissatisfaction. This time, Kyle rolled his eyes. 

“That’s all I know! Stan interrupted us before I could actually learn anything about him.” He added, shrugging his shoulders. 

“But you think he’s, er… gay?” Butters questioned, turning from the other side of the hall. Tweek closed his locker next to him, facing their group as well.

“Either that, or I am reading into things completely wrong here.” Kyle rubbed the back of his neck, nervousness blooming in his chest. “...But, I mean— that was totally a pickup line, right? I’m not crazy?”

After meeting David, and making it through the first encounter he’d ever experienced with someone (presumably) like him – Kyle couldn’t get the other boy off his mind. He’d laid in his bed for an hour last night just thinking about it. No one in South Park had ever approached him like that before, so he had every right to feel as bewildered as he was. 

“That was definitely a pickup line, dude!” Tweek exclaimed, smiling on Kyle’s behalf. “You should ask him out!”

“...But— god.” Kyle dropped his head into his hands, face heating up from embarrassment. He shook away the feeling, looking up again. “I can’t. I can’t, I don’t even know his last name!” 

Cartman rolled his eyes, slamming a calculus book into his locker. “Dickhead, that’s what dates are for! You get to know the fag, you kiss, then you live happily ever after. Or, whatever the fuck you gaywads do.”

Kenny held up an accusing finger towards the boy. “Cartman, you do not have enough brain capacity to speak on this matter. Shut the hell up.” He said, turning back to Kyle. “The real question is, do you like him?”

“Well…” Kyle slumped slightly, shoving his biology binder into his bag. “I think so? He’s cute, funny… definitely my type… yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

“There you go.” Kenny nodded, mocking a bow with his arms. Kyle groaned.

“I don’t want to come off as too strong though! I mean, what if that’s just how he acts towards everyone he meets? I could be overstepping!” Kyle suggested, shutting his locker once he’d grabbed everything he needed. 

“Dude, he literally tried rizzing you up. Trust me, you’re not overstepping.” Kenny chuckled.

Kyle groaned again, cringing internally from the blonde’s words. “Oh, Jesus Christ Ken, please don’t ever let the word ‘rizz’ leave your mouth again.” 

“I’m just speaking facts!” Kenny exclaimed, closing his own locker as well. “Although, I will have to meet this guy before he takes you out. You know, just in case.” 

Kyle rolled his eyes, lolling his head back and resting it against the wall. “In case of what, dude? He turns out to be anti-video games or something?”

Kenny shrugged one of his shoulders. “That, or he’s the one who killed Sco–” 

Each of Kyle’s friends all froze in their tracks, including Kenny. The blonde had stopped himself before the word could escape his lips, but it was already too late. Everyone knew what he was going to say. An abrupt silence lingered within the confines of the school hallway, as the mood of the conversation immediately shifted. Kyle’s playful smile had dropped, replaced with a tense frown. Butters and Tweek exchanged the same look, while Cartman seemed to have ignored the sentence completely. 

Kyle’s mind descended back into its crowded norm, as he was then reminded of what today was. He had been so busy thinking about David, so busy blushing over the fact that someone had given him attention, that he’d forgotten what today entailed. It was Wednesday, the day of Scott’s funeral. Kyle was upset that he’d allowed something like that to slip his mind so easily. He had promised Scott’s mother that he would be there, promised to show and pay his respects in honor of his best friend. He couldn’t believe that something like that had slipped his mind so easily, all because someone had used a pickup line on him. 

Suddenly, the possibility of going out with David had lost all of its appeal. It seemed like the absolute last thing on Kyle’s list of priorities. As flattered as he was to have been noticed for a first time that wasn’t platonic, it just didn’t feel right to pursue something now. Kyle couldn’t even identify his own state of mind, and it wouldn’t be fair to drag David into that. Hell, the boy had just moved to South Park, he had enough to deal with already. 

The bell for first period began ringing, echoing around the group and finally giving them a chance to reset. Kyle cleared his throat, pushing himself off the wall of lockers and standing up straight. 

“...I don’t know, maybe it’s not the best idea right now.” He said quietly, hiking his backpack straps over his shoulders. “I don’t think I’m ready to date anyone yet.”

Butters shrugged, offering the redhead a small smile. “Well that’s okay, Kyle. There ain’t nothing stopping you and David from being friends!” 

“Yeah!” Tweek agreed. “Besides, dating is way too much pressure! It’s better to be just friends!” 

Kyle said nothing in response, and just followed along with his friends as they headed down the hallway. Kenny held his head a little lower than usual, which meant that he was uncomfortable – likely from his own comment. Kyle had seen that gesture before, multiple times before, and it was only a matter of time before the blonde went down the wrong path again. He squeezed his backpack straps, fingers firm underneath the padding. He was itching to say something, but he couldn’t. Not until it was just them. 

Eventually, Tweek and Butters branched off from the rest of the group and turned down a different hallway, waving their goodbyes until they’d meet back up in the cafeteria during lunch. Cartman turned into a chemistry classroom on the way, shouting some mediocre insult to the two remaining boys. Kyle and Kenny took a staircase up to the second floor, walking silently side by side.

Kyle couldn’t take it anymore. He turned to Kenny, emerald gaze considering his expression. “Are you okay?”

Kenny looked up, meeting his eyes with a mournful look. “I didn’t mean to say that David was–”

“I’m not talking about that.” Kyle cut him off before he could finish. Kenny’s eyebrows knitted themselves together, a puzzled glint now prominent in his eyes. Kyle continued. “I mean, are you okay?”

Kenny broke contact, facing forward as they ventured down the upstairs hallway. “...I don’t know.” He said, voice soft and undecided. 

Kyle sighed. He knew that Kenny had a very little amount of people in his life that he was able to confide in, which was one of the reasons why his health had gone unnoticed so many times before. His parents were out of the question, almost always either fighting or sleeping, or complaining when the rare instance of driving Kenny to school seemed like a chore. It was things like this that made Kyle feel ungrateful for having everything that he did – a loving and caring family, who literally had a routine of sharing their feelings around the dinner table. 

So Kyle made himself available for Kenny, every time the blonde needed someone to talk to. It didn’t matter the time of day, or if Kyle was in the middle of something, if Kenny called, he’d answer. Kyle wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone, that over everything Kenny would always have him. It took a few tries until Kenny had opened up to him, but it made Kyle all the more willing to help. And when a phone call came that nearly shattered his heart, a phone call in which Kenny had been hysterically sobbing and spouting incoherent words, Kyle was there to talk to him. To talk him out of doing something he would regret. 

After that night, the two of them became inseparable. They had always been close, closer than anyone in the rest of their group, but that night had sparked a new kind of friendship. Kenny struggled on his path to recovery, but Kyle was with him through it all. He knew that that was why Kenny was always so protective of him, he felt like he owed him for everything he had done. But that wasn’t the case. Kyle wasn’t in this for favors.

After a while, he began to recognize signs of Kenny struggling with his feelings. The blonde tended to reserve himself over openly admitting things, and Kyle knew that that was what was happening now. He wouldn’t ever let Kenny go through that again. He had to do something.

“Hey. Don’t shut down on me.” Kyle said, bumping Kenny’s shoulder with his own. “What are you thinking about?”

Kenny sunk his teeth into his bottom lip, darting his eyes around before settling back on Kyle. 

“It’s so weird, Ky. Not having him here. It’s like the only thing that’s left of him is an empty space. An extra chair.” He explained, exhaling a breath trapped in his chest.

“Yeah.” Kyle agreed, frowning. “I keep thinking he’s going to show up in class, but… he never does.” 

Kenny looked down again, avoiding eye contact even as they turned into their history classroom. He and Kyle easily found seats next to one another, sitting in the row closest to the windows. Kenny turned around, facing Kyle.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” He admitted, tapping the back of his chair nervously. “…I didn’t mean to screw your chances with that guy, the only reason I said that was because— well…”

Kenny lost his words, but Kyle still understood the message he was trying to convey. He smiled, assuringly. “Because Scott would have laughed. Trust me, I know.”

Kenny huffed, and for a moment Kyle rejoiced, thinking that his efforts to pull the blonde out of the dark hole he so habitually dug for himself had worked. But as soon as Kenny’s face fell, he knew it had been the opposite. 

“I just want Yates to find this fucker already. He doesn’t deserve to get away with this.” Kenny growled, keeping his voice low so as to not attract attention from their classmates. 

“I know, Ken. Me too.” Kyle said, truthfully. He had already told Kenny everything he was feeling, the last thing he wanted to do was to make this about himself. 

That was, until Kenny looked at him again, eyes distrustfully narrowed as they bore into Kyle’s own. 

“You told him about the calls, right?” He asked. 

Kyle paled. Not visibly, since his complexion had seamlessly hidden the image of color draining from his face, but internally, it was as if everything stopped. His heart, his breathing, everything. He should have known this was coming, Kenny was bound to ask about it sooner or later, Kyle just wished he could have had more time to prepare his response. Because right now, staring at the blonde who had it much worse than he did, Kyle thought of nothing.

Which was why it was damn near a miracle when something else interrupted their conversation. 

“Kyle?” A sweet feminine voice had called out, which had both Kyle and Kenny snapping towards its source. Ms. Pearl, their world history teacher, was standing behind her desk at the front of the classroom, waving her hand. “Could you come up here?”

Kyle hesitated for a moment, not wanting to seem eager to escape Kenny’s stare. He stood up from his seat, treading across the tile and meeting Ms. Pearl at her desk. Kenny watched from across the room. 

“Here,” She held out a piece of pink paper for Kyle to take. It only took a glance for him to realize that it was an office referral. “PC Principal called and asked to see you in his office. Grief counseling starts today.”

Kyle cocked a brow, clutching the piece of paper in his hand. “But Mr. Mackey’s my guidance counselor, why am I not seeing him?”

Ms. Pearl only shrugged, looking mildly uninterested. “PC Principal asked for you specifically. I don’t know much more than that.” 

For some reason, those words churned something sick in Kyle’s gut. He didn’t forget that PC was the one to find Scott’s body at Stark’s Pond, the one to find him strung up between the trees like some sort of twisted museum exhibit. PC hadn’t commented on the case at all, not publicly anyway, even when Kyle had heard about him being bombarded with reporters outside of the sheriff’s station. He couldn’t imagine what went through the man’s mind that morning. It was horrific. 

Still, Kyle wondered what PC’s intentions were. If he was being called down for something as simple as grief counseling, he would have been sent to Mr. Mackey’s office. He knew that PC had also offered his help, given his presence during Ms. Victoria’s speech, but Kyle was confused as to why PC had asked to see him specifically. Either way, it looked like he was about to find that out. 

He shot one last glance towards Kenny, before heading back out through the classroom door just as the late bell began ringing. It was loud in his ears for a few moments, since he’d walked under one while stepping into the hallway. He watched as the other teachers in the history wing all shut their doors, so the arrival of late students could be emphasized. As a habit, Kyle folded the pink office slip in his hand as many times as he could, anxiety creeping up his spine. 

PC wouldn’t tell him about Scott’s body, would he? He wouldn’t tell Kyle how he found him, or what it looked like when he did… right?

No. Kyle was being stupid. He was pretty sure that any talks about dead bodies were against school policy and, PC principal basically lived by school policy. The man was more in touch with his own authority than anyone Kyle had ever seen. There had to be another reason why he wanted to speak with him. 

Kyle headed back down the staircase he and Kenny had climbed not even five minutes ago, rounding a few corners until he reached the lobby of the school. It was deathly quiet when the halls were as empty as they were, his sneakers squeaking against the tile as he made his way to the main office. He walked in and paused, noticing that the reception desk was empty. Usually he’d have to check in with someone before seeing PC, but as Kyle looked around, he realized he was out of luck in that department. 

He then noticed that the door to PC’s office was propped open, revealing the man himself sitting at his desk. He had his eyes glued to a paper of some sort, jotting something down with a pen. Kyle nervously wet his lips, pivoting to his left and stopping in the doorway. PC still hadn’t lifted his head, so Kyle opted to softly knock on the frame. PC finally looked up, eyes settling on the redhead from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. 

“Kyle!” He called, a faint smile on his lips. He gestured to the armchairs across from his desk. “Go ahead and have a seat.”

Kyle complied, pulling one of the chairs out and getting comfortable. He unfolded the office slip and slid it over to the assistant principal, crumpled and messy. PC took it without a second thought, opening a random drawer and shoving it inside. 

Kyle laced his fingers together over his lap, feeling the same pit of nervousness tighten his muscles. The room was darker than the rest of the main office, with only the light of the morning sun shining through the window. The glass was fogged with condensation from the cold weather, and the humidity of yesterday’s storm. 

Kyle opened his mouth to speak, his words hesitant on his tongue. “My… teacher said that you asked for me specifically?” 

PC looked at him – or, in his general direction, considering that Kyle couldn’t see his eyes through the man’s sunglasses – and folded his arms on his desk. 

“Well, Principal Victoria thought it would be a good idea to start counseling with students who were closest with Scott. And, that would be you. And your friends, of course.” PC explained, and Kyle felt so tremendously dense to think that he was called down for a different reason. 

He could chalk it up to the effects of what today entailed, watching one of his best friends be put into the ground was something that he wasn’t really prepared for. During the assembly, Kyle thought that grief counseling would never be something he’d intentionally seek out, but maybe it was exactly what he needed. He’d felt bad for his parents because they had been thrown into a position that they themselves didn’t quite know how to deal with, yet were expected to comfort their son. But PC was someone well equipped to handle situations like these, as well as Mr. Mackey. Kyle felt like maybe this was the right thing to do. 

Maybe things would end up being okay. 

Yates slapped a tan folder down on the metal table, the force causing Stan to flinch. But, he remained as stoic as he could, since he really had no other choice. 

His mind was much clearer than it had been the day before, with Stan having plenty of time to evaluate his actions overnight. He’d gotten zero sleep, but was still as wide awake as ever. He had to be, because it seemed like Yates was already up his ass even though the man had no solid evidence against him. 

Stan thought about it all night. Who could have been behind this. If the phone calls and the little stunt with Scott’s truck were related, which was the only theory of his that made any kind of sense. Whoever was messing with him made it pretty clear that they didn’t want their identity to be known, and that pissed the quarterback off beyond belief. He had no leads, and no suspects. There wasn’t even enough information for a suspect, all that Stan had was the knowledge that some freak was calling him, and that same freak might have also been the one to murder Scott.

They had yet to call him back, the last time Stan spoke to them was in the parking lot at Sizzler’s. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together, their words had obviously been a warning for what was to come. Stan just wished he could have figured that out sooner. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been in this alone. Maybe then he could have gone to the cops for help.

It wasn’t like Stan wanted them to call him back, but he was certainly owed an explanation for what had happened. Although, he wasn’t really sure what the stranger would say to him. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to hear, maybe some fucking reason as to why they were doing this to him? 

Stan had been wrung out and left to dry like a wet piece of clothing. And all of his unanswered questions only amplified his feeling of helplessness.

He was lucky when Craig and Clyde didn’t bring up his mishap at the lunch table yesterday, not once asking why he’d so urgently bolted from the classroom. That was Stan’s only win in the last couple days. The rest of the time felt like he was being crushed to death by two brick walls.

The room he sat in now was cold and dark. The walls and floor were pure concrete, with nothing inside but two metal chairs and a table. The only remotely decorative object in the room was the one-way mirror built into the same wall with the door. Physically, the lighting in the room had been just fine, if not too bright for the small space. But Stan knew the kinds of people who sat in chairs like the one he had. Actual, real criminals. Monsters, like the psycho who killed Scott. 

“Looks like you’ve already made quite a name for yourself in this place, haven’t you, Mr. Marsh?” Yates plopped down in the seat opposite to Stan, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Stan wouldn’t allow himself to break. Not after everything he’d been through. He narrowed his eyes with the slightest amount of malice, not enough to cause a scene, but enough to be noticed. 

“If you’re referring to last year, the fine was paid and I made bail.” He reminded the man, recalling back to his short time behind bars. 

Yates kissed his teeth. “Just because you made bail doesn’t mean your record’s clean.” He said, reaching over the table to open the folder. “That arrest’s gonna follow you ‘til the day you die.”

“How poignant.” Stan rolled his eyes, feeling his nerves heat up under his skin. He could tell he was starting to become agitated. That wasn’t a good thing, especially because the interrogation hadn’t even started yet. 

Inside the folder was a photo of Stan, his mugshot from the year prior, followed by a few papers containing his personal information, everything about his arrest, and a little more. It seemed like Yates had dug up anything he could about him, which in Stan’s case only worsened the outlook of this interrogation. 

Yates eyed him from across the table. “Where were you on the night of Tuesday, September 25th?” 

Stan resisted the urge to ball his hands into fists, as he thought back to what he’d said when he was asked that question the first time. Last week, in Principal Victoria’s office, when everyone thought that Scott was just missing. He was positive that Yates already knew that answer, which meant that he was just trying to gauge Stan’s reaction. He had to focus now, because if his story changed even the slightest amount, his entire facade would come crashing down around him. 

“...Home. Studying. With my friends.” Stan answered slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the man before him. 

Yates nodded, expression unreadable yet he had seemed satisfied with Stan’s words. “Was Scott Malkinson there too?”

The quarterback nodded now, affirming Yates’ question. “Yes.” 

“Was he there all night?” 

Stan shook his head this time. “No. He left around eleven.” 

“When did everyone else leave?” The Detective asked.

“Same time.” Stan replied.

“Was there alcohol involved?” 

“No.”

“Narcotics?”

“No again.” 

Yates narrowed his eyes, slightly. “Where were your parents during all of this?”

Stan bit back a smile. “Sleeping.”

“Did Scott leave with someone?”

“No. He drove his truck there.”

“Did he happen to tell you if he was planning on going straight home?”

“No.” Stan shrugged. “He just said he was leaving.” 

Yates rolled his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth, pausing before asking another question. 

“Is there anywhere you can think of where Scott might have gone after leaving your house?” He queried, Stan could tell that the man was growing impatient. “Frequent spots, places he’d go to unwind?”

Stan figured that a little bit of honesty could work in his favor. He folded his arms, mirroring Yates. “Aside from the football field, Stark’s Pond is actually one of his favorite landmarks.”

“Would he have stopped there on his way home?” Yates asked.

Stan shook his head. “Not likely. He was pretty dr– uh, tired… so, I don’t think he would have stopped anywhere except in his own driveway.” 

“Hm.” The Detective hummed under his breath, the noise a mere whisper yet sounding so loud in such an isolated space. He rested his elbows on the surface of the table, staring at the ravenette with an unsparing gaze. 

“Are you aware that withholding information from a federal officer is against the law?” He asked, his tone stern and condescending. “Scott Malkinson never made it home that night, and his truck was never found, which means that he would have had to have stopped somewhere after leaving your residence.”

“Well, what do you want me to say? I told you the truth, it’s not my responsibility to keep tabs on everything my friends do.” Stan argued, feeling his heart rate pick up and palpitate through his body. 

Yates’ eyes were bordering the line of a glare. “I want you to think, as hard as you can, and try to remember if Scott said anything to you about where he was going.” 

Stan blinked, shutting his eyes a little longer than intended, savoring the brief escape from the bright fluorescent light that hung above his head. Even if he wanted to remember what Scott had told him that night, he couldn’t. Because Scott didn’t tell him anything. They’d barely spoken at all in the hours they were hanging around the fire, and after Wendy had arrived it was like Stan forgot that he wasn’t the only one there. He was the first of his friends to leave Stark’s Pond, his only interaction with Scott being a mutual wave goodbye. 

There wasn’t anything to remember, only to avoid. Almost everything that went on around that fire was illegal, including the fire itself. Stan only hoped that his friends would stick to the same story, he’d gone over it with them at the lunch table yesterday, and even though they had all collectively agreed, he still couldn’t find it in himself to take their word for it. Some of them, like Clyde, caved easily when it came to being pressured. Stan wasn’t sure how far Yates would go to uncover the whole truth, but he was sure that he knew how to get people to crack – even without using certain tactics. 

Needless to say, that thought worried Stan more than anything. 

“How do you know his truck didn’t break down or something? Or maybe he stopped for gas?” He mentioned, shifting the topic of the conversation enough to ease his nerves.

“Because we’ve already ruled those possibilities out.” Yates shot him down. “We spoke with every gas station manager in the area, nobody saw a dark blue Ford F150 getting gas on September 25th.” 

“Cameras?” Stan suggested. 

“Clean. Even the ones off traffic lights.” Yates said, shaking his head. “So you can see how something doesn’t really add up about that night, and why I’m adamant about gathering your statement.” 

Stan lolled his head back with a sigh, bringing his eyes forward again with newfound annoyance. 

“I told you everything I know. There isn’t anything that I have to hide.” He said, tirelessly trying to convince the Detective that he was barking up the wrong tree. 

“For a delinquent such as yourself, I find that hard to believe.” Yates snapped, before inching his upper body further over the table. “Where did Scott Malkinson go after leaving your house?”

Stan tightened his jaw, deadpanning his expression. “I don’t know.”

“He was at your house though, correct? You weren’t lying about a study group.” Yates’ sentence felt off in all the wrong ways. Stan knew pressure when he saw it. He lived it, every day with his father. It was always the same. Yates all but yelling in his face had triggered something inside him. 

”Did he pull over? Too drunk to drive? Ellen Malkinson says that’s happened before.”

“I. Don’t. Know.” Stan enunciated, slowly, it was getting hard to decipher if he was talking to an adult or a child. 

“Let me remind you how much trouble you could get into for lying—“

“I said I don’t know, alright?!” Stan blurted out, mustering up every bit of courage he could to keep himself from flipping the table. His blood was flowing with anxiety, pumping through his veins like a deadly disease. 

He knew it was wrong. He knew he was making a stupid decision. He knew that having another underage drinking charge on his record was nothing compared to a murder charge, but it was too late to back down. It was too late to backtrack his story, especially after each of his friends had already said the same thing. Even though Stan still didn’t trust them, he wasn’t going to prove himself right. 

Even if Yates knew he was lying, he couldn’t do anything about it. Not when there were nearly seven other people with the same alibi. Stan knew the man was pressuring him because it was an intimidation tactic, he knew Yates had very little options to choose from, which was why he took this approach to begin with. 

He was still fine. Stan was still fine. He was fine, but he wanted to leave.

“Now are we done?! I have better things to do than sit here all day!” He yelled.

The collective silence that followed his request seemed to act as a mutual cooldown period. Yates pulled away from the table, leaning back in his chair. Stan watched the Detective’s shoulders heave upwards, as the man sucked in a deep breath. 

“...You know that this is pretty damn serious, right kid?” He asked, grinding his teeth together as he studied the quarterback. “Someone is dead – your friend, is dead – and you think you have better things to do?”

Stan scoffed. “Better than watching you corner me trying to force out a confession? Yeah, I do.” 

Yates scrubbed a hand down his face, letting it fall onto the table. “This isn’t me cornering you. It’s routine questioning.”

“Is it routine for you to peer pressure a teenager? Or were you just getting desperate?” Stan challenged, leaning over the table. 

Blue bore into brown, and Stan’s fight or flight response gradually died down. He knew he had won, he could see it on Yates’ face. The man was stuck in a gutter and had no way of pulling himself out. Scott’s murder was brutal, but it was even more brutal when there were no leads. Stan didn’t have to ask to know that that was certainly the case, or else Yates wouldn’t have attempted to coerce a confession out of him. 

“I’d like to leave now, if that’s okay with you, Detective.” Stan deadpanned, puncturing the barrier of tense silence that Yates so hopelessly held onto. 

The man reached over the table, shutting Stan’s file closed as if he expected the ravenette to try and catch another glance at it. Stan didn’t know why, it wasn’t like that file held any new information. It felt like a petty last move. 

“Fine.” Yates spat. He stood up from his chair, metal legs squeaking along the floor. “...But if you do, end up remembering more about that night, call me.”

Stan grabbed his backpack that had been lying against his own chair, slinging it over his shoulder. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” 

He saw his own way out, pushing through the door and all but stomping out of the sheriff’s station. 

The sky was engulfed with choppy grey clouds, spreading across the horizon with a gloomy tide. The ground of the cemetery was mushy under Kyle’s feet, wet from the previous day’s rainstorm. The sides of his father’s dress shoes had been coated with mud not nearly five minutes after walking around, as were the shoes of every other guest that attended. 

He had stolen his entire outfit from his father’s wardrobe, he never planned on going to a funeral so soon, let alone the funeral of his best friend. Kyle struggled for the first ten minutes, trying to find clothing that didn’t hang off his arms like an oversized coat. He felt that a suit and tie was too formal, although he knew that Scott would have had a laugh if he wore one. It took him nearly twenty minutes to find something that fit, something that wasn’t too long or baggy. He wore a black button-down shirt, tugging the long sleeves up to his elbows and scrunching the cuffs to prevent them from falling down again. He was lucky that Gerald had a regular sense of fashion, regular for a forty-five year old lawyer with two kids. Kyle easily found a pair of black slacks to match his shirt, and a rugged pair of dress shoes that had certainly seen better days. 

To top it off, Kyle also stole one of Gerald’s coats from the foyer closet, one that he was sure the man hadn’t touched in over three years. It was warmer than Kyle’s own coat, it had a fur hood like Kenny’s parka, the coat’s only real difference being colored green rather than bright orange. The last thing Kyle wanted was to stand out. In fact, he wanted the opposite. He promised Scott’s mom that he would go, but he didn’t want Scott’s family members coming up to him and asking questions. It would have felt too awkward for him. Even though Kyle had considered himself as one of Scott’s best friends, he didn’t feel comfortable speaking for him. Scott’s relatives would ask about his everyday life, probably hoping for a hero’s story. He didn’t want to accidentally butcher that. He didn’t want to take away something special from Scott’s memory. He was a good person, but Kyle had trouble finding words that made people realize that.

Cartman had driven him there, along with Butters, and now they were sitting between rows of strangers as they waited for the ceremony to start. There was light chatter amongst them, mournful and melancholy every time Scott’s name was spoken. The air was crisp and frigid, cold enough for visible puffs of white to follow sorrowful exhales. The evergreen branches of the surrounding trees dripped with moisture that had lasted throughout the day, clinging to the bark and ground as if everything would dry up without it. 

Kyle turned his phone over, checking for a message from Kenny. It had been hours since he’d last seen the blonde, even missing him at lunch when he’d discovered that Kenny managed to snag detention from their least favorite teacher. Kyle wasn’t given the reason why, just a heads up text that Kenny wouldn’t make it to the cafeteria. He wasn’t around when Cartman had picked Kyle up either, and now the redhead was growing irritated. He knew that Kenny wouldn’t purposely ditch Scott’s funeral, but his lack of justification for being late was horrendous. They’d gotten there ten minutes ago, and if Kenny didn’t hurry, then the seat which Kyle had saved for him would be taken. 

“Holy fuck I’m starving, how long until they serve dinner?” Cartman’s aggravating voice cut through Kyle’s thoughts from behind him. At least the brunette had the decency to whisper. 

Still, Kyle spun around to face him, kindled with the same anger that arose every time the boy spoke. “Are you fucking serious? We are at a funeral, Cartman! For our friend!”

Cartman drew his shoulders up in a half-ass shrug. “Jesus, Kahl, it’s not like I can help when I’m hungry! What am I supposed to do, not eat?!”

Kyle shot him an incredulous glare, throwing his palms up in disbelief. 

From his right, further down the row, Butters turned around to join the argument. “I ate some cheesy poofs in the car, you should have had some Eric!” He exclaimed, smiling as if he’d done Cartman a favor. 

Cartman shifted his focus onto the blonde. “Well maybe if you told me that there were delicious cheesy poofs in the car, I could have enjoyed them with you.”

At this, Butters frowned. His shoulders slumped forward in genuine remorse. “Oh, gee. I’m sorry, it hadn’t even crossed my mind!”

“Sorry doesn’t put the cheesy poofs in my stomach, does it Butters?!” Cartman gritted his teeth, but the gesture had done little to intimidate them. 

Kyle rolled his eyes and faced forward again, while the two continued bickering. Bickering being a loose term for Butters, since the boy didn’t quite know how to argue. Kyle was pretty sure Butters’ father was to blame for that, choosing to ground him for every little inconvenience rather than actually working out the issue, rather than teaching him about life.

His eyes drifted across the scene before him, unfamiliar faces grieving along with one another to pass the time before the service began. Kyle’s wandering gaze captured the back of Ellen Malkinson, crying into a crumpled tissue while her husband rubbed slow circles into her back. Kyle tightened his lips into a pitiful smile, noticing each of his friends’ parents as they stood beside the two. Mrs. Tweak was holding one of Ellen’s hands, muttering words of comfort as she quietly sobbed. Mr. Stotch had a bottle of water on standby, and Mrs. Cartman held a package of tissues for every time one was discarded.

Kyle knew that his parents wouldn’t have missed this funeral if they weren’t out of the country. From what Ellen had told him on the phone, it seemed like Gerald and Sheila had already paid their condolences to Scott’s family. Kyle would have liked to hear what they had to say. 

Suddenly, a body dropped into the chair beside him, causing Kyle to jump. He settled once he realized that it was just Kenny. Kenny, who wore a black polo shirt and black jeans, casual yet respectable enough for the circumstances. 

“Dude! Where the hell have you been?!” Kyle whisper-yelled, checking his phone again to see if he’d missed anything from his fashionably late best friend. He didn’t; there was no warning text on his screen. 

Kenny sighed, fluffing up his locks with rough fingers. “My dad fuckin’ ripped his suit, we had to borrow one from the neighbors.” 

He nodded his head towards the aforementioned man, walking up the aisle between the rows of chairs to greet Scott’s parents. 

Kyle huffed, watching the man pass by. He didn’t miss the way Stuart stumbled over his feet on the way up. “I’m surprised he even got up.” 

Kenny fixed the collar of his shirt, smoothing the edges over until he was satisfied. “He didn’t. I had to wake him up.” 

Kyle frowned, facing forward just as Stuart reached Mr. and Mrs. Malkinson. He couldn’t hear what Stuart was saying, but he hoped that it was appropriate. Carol, Kenny’s mother, was nowhere in sight, probably at home drinking the rest of the day away. 

“Oh, dude, what did PC say to you this morning?” Kenny asked, lowering his voice as he leaned closer to Kyle. 

The redhead shrugged, shoving his phone into the pocket of his coat. “It was just a check-in, he said he wanted to start counseling with Scott’s friends before anyone else.”

And that’s all it had been, just a check-in. Kyle had been worried about absolutely nothing, not once did PC stray off topic or hint at anything related to Scott’s body. The man had only wanted to make sure Kyle was okay. He asked him how he felt about being home alone without his parents, especially during a time like this, and Kyle was honest with him. He told PC that as much as he wished his parents were here with him, he felt as though they weren’t responsible for consoling his feelings. PC had respected that, and offered his own advice. Overall, Kyle was happy he didn’t try to weasel out of it. 

But, what Kenny told him next had struck an odd chord within him. 

“…Mackey was seeing a bunch of people today for counseling, and I'm pretty sure not all of them were friends with Scott.”

Kyle furrowed his eyebrows, heart skipping a beat in his chest. “How do you know?”

“Because his office is right across the hall from my trig class. All day I heard his door opening and closing.” Kenny said casually, as if it was common knowledge. 

Kyle blinked, shaking his head as confusion flooded him. “Then why would PC single me out over anyone else?”

Kenny looked equally as lost, shrugging just as the surrounding conversations died down to whispering. They turned away from one another, and the rest of the attendees all took their seats around them. The whispers soon turned into complete silence, save for a few sniffles and cries, and Kyle concluded that the service was beginning. Cartman’s mother took her seat beside her son, Tweek and Butters both sitting in between each of their parents. 

He thought that he was starting to feel better, about his emotions and coping mechanisms, but after Kenny’s words sunk in, Kyle was concerned all over again. He thought back to his time in PC’s office, sitting across from the man who almost never took his sunglasses off in public. Nothing had felt off to Kyle, even knowing the fact that PC had seen Scott’s dead body, it began not to bother him. PC seemed genuine with his attempts at helping him admit his feelings, control his grief and convince him that he wasn’t in this alone. What Kenny said was strange, but now was not the time for Kyle to delve into his investigative mind. It was Scott’s funeral. So until it was over, he’d just have to delude himself into believing nothing was wrong. 

The only thing that was wrong was attending his friend’s burial. Saying goodbye.

Scott’s casket lay next to an empty grave up in front of the chairs, closed and concealing the horrors of which he died. A lectern stood tall beside it, lined with white wisteria and pink carnation flowers. Both of Scott’s parents gathered on the right, while a man – Kyle recognized him as Father Maxi, a pastor who ran the South Park Christian church – stepped up to speak.

The cemetery was eerily quiet. Kyle curled his hands over one another, watching as Father Maxi opened up a book in his hands, placing it across the lectern’s surface before clearing his throat. 

“...The life, given to us by nature, is short. But the memory, of a life that is well spent, is eternal.” He spoke with a preacher’s tone, confident and compelling. “Scott Malkinson shall live on not only in our hearts, but through the memories which he aided in creation.” 

Kyle swallowed a lump in his throat, suddenly drowning in a rush of dejection. He couldn’t keep his eyes forward, instead opting to rest his blurring gaze upon his lap. He hadn’t realized how vigorous his grip had become on his own hand, squeezing his palms together in a desperate attempt to stay calm. His knuckles and surrounding skin faded to white, paler than the color of his complexion. 

Kenny reached his hand over and rested it atop Kyle’s, the contact almost immediately causing the redhead’s muscles to relieve their strain. Kyle glanced up at the boy to his left, a thankful smile pulling on his lips. Kenny returned the same expression, not showing any signs of retracting his comfort, the gesture signifying a silent ‘it’s going to be okay’. Kyle watched him turn forward again, but kept his own eyes lingering on the side of the blonde’s face.

And from the corner of his vision, past Kenny, Kyle noticed something else. He flicked his attention towards a row of chairs further from where he sat, locking eyes with Stan Marsh. 

Stan held his stare with a blank expression, face still with a twinge of somberness. Kyle considered him, softly knitting eyebrows in thought. He could have glared, flipped him off, but for the first time, he didn’t feel any anger while looking into the eyes of his enemy. Stan’s piercing blue stare should have sent a wave of fury through his bones, but Kyle couldn’t bring himself to get angry. Today was different. Of course, he couldn’t quite see into Stan’s mind, but he knew by the way his shoulders slouched that today, they were both grieving. Today, their rivalry seemed as petty as the cloudy sky casting grey shadows over the world. 

Kyle nodded his head, once, silently offering a momentary truce.

And Stan nodded back. 

Father Maxi continued with his speech, quoting the bible and pulling from every metaphor he could come up with. Kyle would be lying if the man’s words hadn’t brought tears to the eyes of everyone there, including his own. Kenny’s warm hand hadn’t once left his own, continuously offering sympathetic comfort.

Stan found his own eyes still lingering on Kyle, even after the redhead had turned around. He knew exactly what that look meant, and a small part of him actually appreciated it. Because Kyle didn’t know it, but he had just single handedly saved Stan from having a panic attack. 

Drowning out Father Maxi’s voice with his own internal dialogue was a grave mistake, because Stan himself was a walking reminder of how just two days ago, he’d betrayed Scott’s family. If he hadn’t pushed that truck into the lake, there very well could have been a lead discovered on his killer. He stole away Scott’s chance of receiving justice. He stole it and ravaged it, discarding it like trash. 

How did he think he could look Ellen and Clark in the eyes after that? How could he think he’d be able to shake their hands, express how sorry he was for their loss, pretend like he wasn’t the sole reason their son’s killer hasn’t been caught yet?

After his distasteful questionnaire with Yates, Stan decided to skip school for the rest of the day. He didn’t feel like sitting through his classes while his conscience violently chewed into his thoughts, digging through his gut along with the burning feeling of guilt. Of course, he couldn’t necessarily just leave, since he’d have to be back to drive Kyle home after fourth period. So, he opted to park his jeep in the back of the student lot and sleep through the day. It wasn’t ideal, using his backpack as a pillow, but it gave him the energy that he so desperately needed. 

He’d dropped Kyle off and driven straight home, changing into more formal attire with shaky hands. Both of Stan’s parents had gone with him to the funeral. It was funny how eager they were to stay on every other parents’ good side, rather than stay on any side of their own son’s. Not that Stan even cared, he’d gone so long without needing validation from them that if they were to give him any now, he’d be surprised. 

Stan took one look at the broken mess that was Ellen Malkinson, and decided right then and there that he wouldn’t go up to her at all. He wouldn’t tell her how sorry he was. He wouldn’t keep her in his thoughts and prayers. He wouldn’t lie to her. Not for a second time. 

And as he tuned back into reality, as he allowed Father Maxi’s words to flow through his ears, all of that became real again. He might as well have been the one to cause this, since now Stan was morally considered as an accomplice to murder. He was a criminal. The same kind of monster they locked up in federal prisons. 

Stan shut his eyes. His leg began bobbing up and down, shaking to match the immense speeds of which his worries pierced his soul. Was he fucking stupid? Did he seriously think that he could keep this kind of secret to himself? The outcome of Stan destroying himself would almost be worse than if someone found out on their own. He couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t– he couldn’t–

Stan snapped his eyes open, begging for help to escape his own mind. He felt like he was going insane, he needed something else to focus on. 

He looked at Father Maxi, who read words from a book that were solely dedicated to the person that he’d indirectly murdered. Nope. He looked at Ellen, trying to stifle her cries so she wouldn’t be heard over the pastor. Nope. He looked over the crowd, trying to find one of his friends’ faces. Of course, he noticed Wendy before anyone else. Absolutely not. 

Then, Stan looked at someone else. He looked at a warm smile tugging at the corners of dusty pink lips. He looked at a nest of red curls so wildly mesmerizing. He looked at a patch of asymmetrical freckles, contrasting so vividly against fair skin. He looked at Kyle. 

And then Kyle looked back at him. 

And then everything stopped.

Stan’s knee stopped bouncing. His thoughts stopped racing. His gut stopped twisting, and his heart stopped beating. Kyle’s smile had faded once he locked eyes with him, but that didn’t matter. He held his gaze with the same amount of solemnness that Stan delivered. It was weird. It was so weird. Stan was used to his eyes naturally narrowing with hatred, beating into Kyle’s emerald stare with his own. But this was different. This felt different. Stan didn’t feel the need to glare, or try and get a rise out of the redhead, he just… stared. 

Kyle nodded to him, a respectful gesture that Stan couldn’t help but return. He knew what it was, what Kyle wanted it to mean, and he agreed. They didn’t have to hate each other right now. Not today. 

And if somewhere, deep within the bowels of Stan’s heart, he wanted to hold that stare for a little longer, no one would ever know. 

It wasn’t until over an hour went by, dragged on with relatives and friends of Scott sharing stories about him at the lectern. Kyle had listened to nearly everyone speak, even his classmates from school. Tolkien Black had recounted their first winning game of last year’s football season, how ecstatic Scott had been to participate. Kevin Stoley had brought up a birthday party around that same time, laughing sadly about how much cake Scott had served himself, despite having diabetes. Clyde Donovan couldn’t even finish his speech, bursting into tears halfway through. Kyle thought about going up to the lectern himself, sharing about one of the many times Scott had positively impacted his life, but he didn’t trust himself not to turn up like Clyde. So, he sat in silence, laughing along with the crowd as more memories were shared. 

By the time the speeches were over, it was already nearing six o’clock. The sun was beginning to set, reflecting the sky with a dull golden hue. Guests were making their rounds with people they knew, expressing their condolences to Scott’s parents one last time. Before Kyle knew it, most of the seats were empty, and the only people who remained were himself, his friends, his classmates, and their parents. 

“How are you feeling?” Kenny asked, in a normal voice now that they no longer had to whisper. 

They were standing near a fold-up table that displayed pictures of Scott, all from throughout the course of his life up to the most recent photos taken. Kyle wished he’d thought about printing the one on his laptop and adding it to the collage, but that hadn’t crossed his mind before.

He inhaled, letting the cold autumn air open his lungs with a much-needed breath. “Better.” 

“Yeah?” Kenny smiled, draping his orange parka over his shoulder. Kyle didn’t know how in the world the boy wasn’t freezing to death. 

“Yeah.” Kyle nodded, for the first time in the last week being absolutely sure of himself. “This… feels like closure. I’m glad everyone came.”

“Me too.” Kenny agreed, gliding his fingers along the side of Scott’s eighth grade portrait. Kyle remembered that day, picture day, where he and Scott mocked the photographers for their stingy words of encouragement. 

Kenny looked up at him. “You wanna ride home with me? Or is fat boy driving?” He asked, jutting his chin out towards the aforementioned boy, who was talking loudly behind Kyle.

Kyle huffed out a laugh, peering over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the brunette. Cartman had punched Butters in the arm for something that Kyle didn’t pick up on, earning himself a scold from his mother. 

He smiled, turning back to Kenny. “No, I can ride with you. I don’t really wanna sit through all of Cartman’s complaining about not being served food and beverages.” 

Kenny laughed. “Fair enough.” 

A familiar voice then caught Kyle’s attention, drawing his eyes away from the table of Scott’s pictures. Ellen Malkinson was still standing near the lectern, talking to a few guests who were on their way out. She no longer clutched a tissue in her hand, instead wiping away her tears with gloved fingers. Kyle wanted to wait to speak to her after everyone else had the chance to, he didn’t want to take any time away from Scott’s family. But now that it was getting late, and most of the guests had gone, it seemed like the perfect time.

“I’ll be right back,” He warned Kenny, stepping away from the blonde and heading towards the lectern. 

But Kyle only made it halfway there before he’d bumped into something hard, letting out a startled noise and reeling back from the impact. He realized that he’d run into a person, immediately steadying himself and thinking of a way to apologize. That was, until he met their eyes.

David stared down at him with genuine surprise. “Kyle?!”

“David!” Kyle returned the accidental greeting, tone enthusiastic yet a bit confused. “Hey! Wh– what are you doing here?”

Scott’s memorial service was open to anyone who knew him. Friends, family, anyone with a direct connection. And as far as Kyle was concerned, David was none of those things. Scott had been dead days before David introduced himself, and frankly it was strange seeing him in a setting that was so personal to him. David was dressed for it, too – wearing a black turtleneck sweater and dark grey slacks. 

David went from mildly surprised, to shocked, to mortified – all within a matter of five seconds. He raised his palms out in front of him, as if he were approaching a rabid animal ready to maul him to death.

“I am so sorry Kyle, I— I had no idea that he was your friend.” He explained, referring to Scott. “I just… thought it would be a good idea for me and my family to come pay our respects.”

“David?” 

Both Kyle and David turned to a third voice, much deeper than either of theirs. A middle aged man approached them, next to a petite woman with long brown hair. 

“Who is your friend?” The woman asked, flashing a bright and friendly smile towards the redhead.

Kyle returned the smile, albeit a bit awkwardly. He looked up at David, the taller boy incredibly disheveled from stress. Kyle would have found it attractive, if he wasn’t completely and utterly confused at this interaction. 

David lifted a hand, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He quickly gestured to Kyle next to him. “Uhh, mamá, papá, this is.. Kyle.” 

The man and the woman, who Kyle now understood were David’s parents, immediately shifted every ounce of their focus onto him. Their faces both beamed with smiles, and before Kyle knew it, David’s mother was yanking him into an embrace. 

“Oh, cariño, I can’t thank you enough for befriending David!” She exclaimed, wrapping her arms tightly around Kyle. He reciprocated, releasing a hesitant laugh. “He has had such trouble fitting in at school, I was so excited to hear he finally made a friend!” 

Kyle’s smile faltered after hearing this, and he made a move to pull away. Thankfully, David’s mother had done so without trouble. He turned to the ravenette boy, furrowing his eyebrows in an accusatory manner. 

“I thought you said yesterday was your first day?” Kyle commented, tone pitching up to make it sound like a question. 

David looked at him with pleading eyes. Or regretful eyes, Kyle couldn’t really tell. It was hard to read someone he’d just met the previous afternoon. He sighed, “Kyle, I just–”

“Yesterday?” David’s father cut him off. “We’ve been living here a little over one week already! I think it was about time that David came out of his shell.”

“Papá, please!” David scolded, a poor attempt at asking his parents to stop talking. His mother continued on a tangent, about the changes that came with moving from a big city to another one not even half the size, but Kyle wasn’t listening anymore.

He was starting to get weirded out, after learning that most of what David had said to him yesterday had been a lie. And on top of that, he invited himself to Scott’s funeral after saying nothing about it in the library. Kyle would have at least expected David to ask if he knew him, or if he’d seen him around school, something like that felt like a pretty important topic. Important enough to ask about it.

A terrible thought then crossed his mind, one that would have sounded clinically insane to him the day before, but Kyle didn’t like how well things were falling into place. 

What if it’s him?

His heart skipped a beat as the words echoed through his mind. Repeating, over and over, like a broken record spinning relentlessly on a turntable. David may have been a charming person, with such a charismatic smile, but Kyle didn’t know him. He didn’t know him like he knew Kenny, or Tweek or Butters. Hell, even Cartman. He didn’t know the reason as to why David lied, and he couldn’t help but think that maybe, it was just to cover his tracks. 

“Mamá!” David whispered, stopping his mother mid-rant. "He doesn't need to hear about my anxiety!"

Kyle pulled himself back into the moment, blinking before he fully descended into overthinking. He couldn’t do that now, not here. He’d save that for when he’s laying in bed. He shot a glance at David, now his number one suspect, before noticing Kenny still waiting by the table. He breathed an internal sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry, I really have to get going.” Kyle said politely, mostly to David’s parents. They hadn’t done anything wrong, as far as he could tell. “It was nice meeting you!”

David’s mother frowned slightly, but kept her composure. “Oh— you as well, querido. Have a good night.”

The man to her right gave him a nod, almost similar to the nod he’d exchanged with Stan during Father Maxi’s speech. Although, that meant something completely different. Kyle was extremely uncomfortable, and he wanted to go home. He smiled again at the couple before turning around, now completely ignoring David’s presence. Kenny had his back to him, still looking over all the pictures of Scott. Kyle began making his way towards him. 

“Kyle!” David called after him, separating from his parents and racing after him. “Kyle, just— just wait a second—“

Before the taller boy could get another word out, Kyle whipped around with an outstretched hand. His heart was starting to beat quite irregularly. That meant that he needed to leave. 

“David… I can’t do this right now, okay? I have to go home.” Kyle said with a tired voice, absolutely not in the mood to hear David argue his case. 

David exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging with disappointment. “Just– let me explain. Please. I promise, it’s not what you think.” 

“What is it then, dude?” Kyle tossed his arms up in annoyance. “You lied to me, plain and simple. I know you said you weren’t great with first impressions, but this isn’t much of an impression at all.” 

David nodded his head violently. “I– I know. I know that. I’m sorry, but if you’ll just let me explain–” 

“Ky?” 

Kyle turned at the sound of his name, just as Kenny began walking towards them. He had his eyes trained on David, instantly aware that something was up. 

“You okay?” He asked Kyle, standing beside him. He looked as if he were ready to throw a punch, if necessary. 

“I’m fine.” Kyle answered, ripping his focus off of David. He needed a moment to breathe, and right now he felt like he was being suffocated. “Can we go? Is your dad ready?”

Kenny glanced at the taller boy in front of them, awkwardly standing around waiting for his chance to say something. Neither Kyle nor Kenny gave him that chance, the blonde easily choosing Kyle’s comfort as his main priority. “He’s in the car, yeah, we can go.” 

“Good.” Kyle replied curtly, pulling Kenny along as they began their walk to the car. 

Kyle could feel David’s eyes on him the whole way there. And it wasn’t pleasant. 

“How was the funeral?” 

Ike had lowered the volume of the TV so he could make sure that Kyle heard his question from the kitchen. Kyle had been spending the last half hour making dinner, going to far lengths in order to keep himself busy. He was home now, but that hadn’t changed the urgency of his concerns. If anything, being home made it worse. It meant that Kyle could overthink as much as he wanted to, knowing his thoughts would never leave the confines of the walls surrounding him. 

“Depressing,” He replied to Ike with a bored tone, his little brother leaning over the back of the sofa to get a clear view of him. “As most funerals are.”

The ceremony itself was nice. Hearing stories about Scott from perspectives other than his own was interesting, Kyle was able to learn a lot about his friend that he hadn’t known before. Like how Scott’s mother had almost named him Alex, but decided last minute that it wasn’t the right fit for him. And how Scott had once broken his big toe after kicking his father’s shoe instead of the soccer ball they had been playing with. The guests had collectively laughed at that. Kyle learned the story behind Scott’s love for sports, taking after his late grandpa who had taught him all about football. Kyle always thought that Scott played because he wanted to occupy his time with something. But that was just one more thing that made Scott a good person. 

It was what happened after the funeral that rubbed Kyle the wrong way. When he ran into David, and discovered that he had been in South Park for much longer than he admitted. Kyle kind of regretted getting mad, not letting David defend himself, because he really was curious as to why he lied. What the hell could he have been doing in all the time he was in South Park? Kyle could only assume it was something bad, considering David felt the need to lie about it. What if his theory was right? What if… what if David was the one who killed Scott? What if David was the one calling him?

At the time, it made sense, but now Kyle was wondering if he just wanted someone to blame. There had been no indications that David was a psychotic murderer, but at the same time Kyle couldn’t really disprove that. He knew nothing about him. The only thing he could really confirm was David’s name, his parents’ being clear evidence. 

He’d told Kenny all about it on the way home, quietly so as to not disturb Stuart while the man slept in the passenger’s seat. As usual, Kenny told him he was overreacting. That David probably had a good reason for lying. But, Kyle couldn’t shake his feeling of betrayal. Despite whatever David’s truth was, it hurt that he’d so confidently approached him yet everything that fell from his mouth was potentially a lie. Kyle was too trusting. Maybe that was his problem. 

“Well, duh.” Ike said, unimpressed with Kyle’s sarcasm. “I mean, like… how did it go?” 

Kyle shrugged, while slicing a head of broccoli into florets on his father’s good cutting board. “Fine, I guess.” 

“How many people were there?” Ike folded his arms over the back of the couch.

Kyle looked up at him, frowning. “It was a funeral, Ike, not a birthday party. It was just family and friends.” 

A beat of silence passed through the room. Faint voices played from the TV, a recorded laughing track like the one Kyle would always hear on Big Bang Theory. He wasn’t interested in whatever Ike was watching, even if their shows both happened to have the same kind of humor. 

“Was Stan there?” Ike asked. 

Kyle’s heart jumped in his chest, his little brother’s question completely catching him off guard. The knife slipped from his grip and caught the edge of his thumb, shooting a sharp pain through his finger.

“Shit! God damn it.” Kyle grumbled, dropping the blade to switch out for a napkin. He wrapped it around his bleeding thumb, turning to Ike with newfound annoyance. “Since when do you care about Stan?”

Ike shrugged with a smug grin. “Just curious.” 

Kyle angrily tossed the napkin into the trash can. “Yeah, well… have you ever heard the expression 'curiosity killed the bratty little seventh grader’?” 

Ike cocked a brow, amused with Kyle’s attempt at an insult. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how that goes.” 

“It will be if you keep badgering me about him.” Kyle warned, threatening the boy with an outstretched index finger. He turned towards the sink, running his injured thumb under cold water. 

Ike tossed up his arms in frustration. “Come on, Kyle, you can’t blame me for asking. He used to come around here all the time, and now that you guys are friends again—“

“Excuse me?” Kyle shut off the faucet almost immediately, whipping around again. “What in the hell makes you think I’m friends with him?” 

Ike tilted his head questionably. “You guys are riding to school together, are you not?”

“Yeah, because Mom and Dad are forcing us!” Kyle yelled, pulling open a drawer on the kitchen island. He pulled out a box of band-aids. “Stan’s an asshole. You’ve got to be crazy if you think I’ll ever want to be friends with him again, especially after what he did.”

Ike sighed. He looked genuinely annoyed, which Kyle knew he had no right to be. “Forgiveness goes a long way, Kyle. Maybe if you—“

“Oh my god, why the fuck does everyone keep saying that?!” Kyle shut the drawer with a harsh amount of force, ripping open the bandaid wrapper. “Stan took something important away from me. Forgiveness doesn’t fix that.” 

“Hating him won’t fix it either. It just makes you more miserable.” Ike said, as-a-matter-of-factly. 

Kyle scoffed. Ike was becoming too much like their father, and it wasn’t a laughing matter. He didn’t need to hear logical arguments, he didn’t need to be convinced of anything. He just needed people to understand how he felt. Stan broke an important promise, then he not only lied to Kyle, but he lied to everyone else as well. For lack of better words, Stan had completely ruined Kyle’s life. He made middle school a living hell for him, completely ruining every one of his experiences. 

People believed that forgiveness really was that simple. But if they were in Kyle’s shoes, things would be much different.

“You just don’t understand, Ike.” Kyle muttered, gathering the chopped broccoli and dumping it into a pan of alfredo sauce. He stirred the mixture over a cooktop on the stove. 

“I understand plenty, actually. I just think you’re having trouble letting go of the past.” Ike explained. 

Kyle rolled his eyes. Of all people, he did not need to hear this kind of shit from his little brother. He only listened to Ike’s advice when it came to video games, or what the best way to make brownies was. This wasn’t his place to try and make Kyle see another point of view.

“You’re my little brother, not my fucking therapist!” Kyle snapped, a little louder than intended, but he didn’t care. This conversation was taking a turn that he certainly did not want to follow. “I’m done talking about this. Stan and I aren’t friends, and we never will be.” 

But Ike, the relentless little bastard that he was, didn’t sound so convinced. “Whatever you say, Kyle.” 

The redhead just rolled his eyes again. He was done listening. He and Stan may have grown up together, they may have been best friends before, but there was absolutely no chance of that happening again. It didn’t matter if Kyle was bitter or not, because Stan was too. Their feeling of vigorous hate was undeniably mutual, and Kyle wouldn’t know the first thing on fixing that – even if he wanted to. 

Today, of course, was an exception. They didn’t need to lash out at each other during their friend’s memorial service. But that was a one-time thing. A temporary truce. Tomorrow, they’d go back to bickering and fighting and everything between them would be normal again. There was nothing to work out, because Kyle didn’t want to, and he was sure that Stan didn’t either.

Hating each other was easier than rekindling a broken friendship. 

“Great form tonight, girls!” Wendy called out as she rounded the corner of the showers, heading towards her locker with her uniform folded in her arms. “Bebe, your handspring could still use a little work.”

Bebe emerged from the same corner behind her, pulling a red sweater over her head and down her torso. Her hair was still wet, dripping with cold water that was once warm and refreshing. She sighed in response to the ravenette girl. 

“I know, my schedule’s been so busy lately, I haven’t had time to practice.” She said, squeezing her eyes shut with mild embarrassment. 

The rest of the cheerleaders were drying off, redressing in multiple layers even when the steam hadn’t yet cleared from the locker room. Now that it was late, the temperatures outside had dropped. Bebe counted on being cold after she left the school, considering how freezing it was during Scott’s funeral. Her winter coat had barely been enough to keep her warm. 

As she opened her locker to grab her gym bag, Bebe could feel Jenny Simons staring at her with judgemental eyes.

“Well, the rally’s tomorrow, Bebe, so you better find time or you’ll ruin the entire routine.” She spat, Bebe’s name like venom on her tongue. 

Wendy immediately jumped to her rescue, whirling around to face the other girl. “Put a sock in it, Jenny!”

Jenny raised her arms in mock surrender. “I’m just stating facts! I mean we’ve been working on this for what, a month now? And Bebe’s the only one who can’t get her shit together! We might as well just do it without her!”

“God, Jenny, you’re such a bitch!” Wendy scolded, slamming her locker door to express her anger. “We didn’t give you any crap for when you sprained your ankle last season, what the hell is it to you?!”

Jenny scoffed, genuine shock appearing on her face. “I’m a bitch?! If you want to call someone a bitch it should be Heidi! The girl slept with your boyfriend and you’re walking and talking with her like nothing happened!”

“Because Stan and I aren’t together, shit-for-brains! We never were!” Wendy yelled, ready to pop a blood vessel. 

“Yeah, and Heidi’s actually a valued member of the squad, unlike some people.” Red chimed in, discarding her conversation with Annie. “We lose her and we’re down a flyer.” 

Jenny rolled her eyes, backing down because she knew she was outnumbered. She slung her backpack and gym bag over her shoulder, storming off towards the exit. “Whatever! Don’t come crying to me when little miss home-wrecker wrecks yours!” 

The door slammed closed behind her, and the locker room descended back into silence. Bebe ignored how much Jenny’s words had stung, concluding that the stress of tomorrow’s pep rally was just getting to her. Jenny wasn’t a sweetheart, but she could usually manage to at least keep her insults to herself if she thought about yelling any.

“The hell’s up her ass tonight?” Red asked, flipping her hair up and tying it back with a scrunchie. 

“Not her boyfriend, that’s obvious.” Wendy quipped, digging through her backpack to find her car keys. Her lanyard jingled when she pulled them from a side pocket. “Sorry about that, Bebe. You know you could easily kick her ass at state champs, right?”

Bebe chuckled, Wendy’s words of encouragement instantly lighting up her mood. She had always appreciated Wendy for that, the girl was truly the embodiment of a captain. Always checking to make sure the team’s chemistry was matched, and at the same time managing to keep them in line. 

“Don’t worry, I know.” Bebe replied. 

Once Red finished tying her hair, she grabbed her belongings and started heading to the exit. Annie followed behind her, waving goodbye. “See you guys tomorrow. Get some good sleep.” 

“Night, Red,” Bebe and Wendy called out in unison, before Wendy cupped her hands over her mouth to yell something else. “Don’t forget, morning practice at five!” 

They both heard Red reply, but her words were muffled behind the locker room door. Bebe and Wendy were the only ones left, as they usually were after most practices. Everyone tried to leave Scott’s funeral as early as they could, because the later it got the less inclined they became to want to head back to the school. But tonight was their last night to get ready for Thursday’s pep rally. Wendy had assured them that their routine looked fine, but it didn’t hurt to have extra practice. The rest of the girls agreed. 

Bebe gathered her things from her own locker, shutting it closed when it was empty. She pulled her phone from her backpack, scrolling through all the notifications she’d missed while outside. As usual, there was nothing from Clyde – despite Bebe texting him after the funeral. She wanted to make sure he was doing okay, especially after the boy had started sobbing during his speech about Scott. The last few days had been rough for their friend group, but Clyde seemed to be taking it the worst of all. 

Wendy’s annoyed sigh yanked Bebe from her own thoughts. She turned to the captain, watching Wendy’s phone as she refreshed her messages. Bebe didn’t miss the small picture of Stan at the top of the screen. 

She smiled, empathetically, knowing that they were going through a similar situation. “Trouble in paradise?” 

Wendy glanced over at her, rolling her eyes with a faint smile. “He’s just… being difficult. Scott’s death really messed him up.”

“Same with Clyde.” Bebe agreed, sighing sadly. “He was doing better after Tolkien’s party, but I think the funeral just made it worse again. I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you tried talking to him?” Wendy suggested, donning a concerned look in her eyes. 

Bebe shrugged one of her shoulders, leading the way as Wendy followed her to the exit. “Yeah, but he doesn’t answer my texts. I’m starting to wonder if maybe giving him some space isn’t such a bad idea.” 

She held the door for Wendy, the two of them stepping out into the cold night air. There was a thick blanket of fog floating through the town, Bebe could see it clearly under the lights of the parking lot. It made the world look strange, desolate and dark. The parking lot itself had been empty, save for Wendy’s car and Bebe’s own. They were the only team left at the school, everyone else had gone home. The football team decided to cancel their practice, as most of them didn’t have the energy after the funeral. 

“You want to break up with him while he’s grieving?” Wendy assumed, lifting her eyebrows at the revelation. 

“No! No, of course not!” Bebe immediately argued, discarding how creepy the parking lot felt as she continued walking with Wendy. “I just… won’t text him as much. I’ll wait until he’s ready to open up.” 

Wendy paused, folding her arms over her chest. Her lilac sweater wrinkled around the arms. “What if he never does?”

Bebe shrugged, humming softly. “Then that’s okay,” She answered honestly. “I can’t force him to talk to me if he doesn’t want to, even if I want him to.” 

Wendy nodded her head, slowly as if she were mulling over Bebe’s words. “..Yeah. That makes sense.”

Bebe was about to reach into her pocket for her keys, but gasped when something had dawned on her. She stopped. “Oh shit, I think I left my towel in the shower.” 

Wendy paused her walk to her own car, looking back at the now frantic blonde. “Need me to come with?” 

“No, I’ll be quick.” Bebe shook her head quickly, waving dismissively at the ravenette. “Go home, Wends, it’s late. You need your captain’s rest.”

Wendy smiled a lopsided grin, pressing a button on her keyfob to unlock her car. “Alright. I won’t argue with that.” 

The two girls yelled their goodbyes and wishes for a good night’s sleep, walking in opposite directions. 

Bebe hurried back towards the school, the locker room door becoming more visible as she traveled through the fog. She gripped the handle, wincing at how cold the material was against the skin of her palm. The locker room was much warmer than the outside air, and the steam only barely rivaled the fog in regards to how far Bebe could see in front of her. She knew the way to her locker by heart, having been making the trip for nearly three years straight, so the steam hadn’t at all thrown her from her path. 

Bebe hummed to herself to fill the eerie silence, mask the empty room that held such a profound and daunting echo. She was glad that late night practices didn’t happen very often, because being at the school during dark hours always left her feeling spooked. There were too many shadows, too many places for people to hide and jump out to scare her from. Clyde had done it before back in sophomore year, then again in junior. Bebe found herself habitually checking corners as she passed by, expecting her linebacker boyfriend to be everywhere she wasn’t looking. She wasn’t even sure how Clyde managed to get into the girls’ locker room, considering Coach Marsh would have his ass if he ever caught him. 

Despite Clyde’s ignorance, Bebe never thought about how much she’d miss those moments now that he wasn’t really talking to her. At least, he wasn’t talking to her about Scott. Bebe knew that Clyde was closest with him out of everyone from their friend group, the two had basically been inseparable — like she was with Wendy. It wasn’t like Bebe ever wished harm on her own best friend, but she’d thought about before what would happen if Wendy died. She never liked the chance of that. She could understand what Clyde was going through, and all she wanted to do was help him through it. 

Bebe turned the corner of the room towards the showers, trying to remember which one she had used. She spotted her towel almost immediately, purple fabric hanging over one of the dividers. She grabbed it, careful not to let the soaked areas touch her clothing, turning around and heading back towards the exit. That was, until she heard a high-pitched squeak coming from the front of the room. 

Bebe recognized the sound of the locker room door opening, but not the one leading to the parking lot. The one that opened into a hallway near the gymnasium was famous for having old hinges, squealing horribly every time it was moved. 

“...Wends?” Bebe called, slowing her pace although not worried. She gave whoever it was a chance to respond, but after hearing nothing she stuck to her theory. “I thought I told you to go home!”

Once again, there was no response. Bebe stopped fully in her tracks, a smile creeping onto her lips as she realized what was going on. Clyde was there. He’d done a pretty shit job with keeping quiet, completely giving himself away by using the front entrance. Bebe smiled. She thought briefly about turning the tables on her boyfriend, scaring him instead of the other way around, but she knew he needed this, it would help cheer him up. 

Bebe continued back towards the main area of the locker room like normal, trying to put on the oblivious guise as best she could. That was, until the bright room was then doused with complete blackness, enveloping Bebe and her surroundings in the dark. A faint light from the parking lot shone through the small windows above the mirrors, enough to illuminate Bebe’s path in order for her to see.

She stopped, jumping slightly. This was a new one for Clyde. He’d never turned the lights out before. 

Suddenly, a scraping noise echoed through the locker room, as if someone were dragging something sharp against the metal doors. A shiver ran down Bebe’s spine, cringing from the noise as it pierced through her eardrums. She accidentally dropped her towel from her arms as she quickly covered her ears, shielding them from the horrific sound. It was a miracle her bags didn’t slip down her arms as well. When the noise finally stopped, Bebe hesitantly pulled her hands away from her ears. Mildly pissed, she decided she didn’t feel like being scared anymore. 

She turned the corner, stepping towards the area near her own locker. Bebe opened her mouth to yell at her boyfriend, but immediately froze. Her heart spiked wildly with horror, as she laid eyes on the second person in the room with her. Only, it wasn’t Clyde. It was someone wearing all black, fingers gloved and clutching a long knife in their hand. They weren’t facing her, but the sight of them alone was enough to scare the shit out of her. 

Before Bebe could take a quiet step back, her backpack strap began slipping off her shoulder. She didn’t have time to catch it as it fell down her arm, landing smack against the floor and alerting the stranger of her presence. They spun around at the speed of light, and Bebe noticed that they were wearing a mask. Black, like the hood that stretched over their head. 

She gasped loudly, fear rippling through her entire being as the stranger advanced toward her. Bebe dropped her other bag and made a beeline for the exit, slamming her body into the door and escaping back into the fog. She sprinted across the pavement towards her car, looking back as the locker room door was shoved open with intense force. The masked stranger bolted after her, the knife in their hand gleaming with ill intention. 

Bebe pumped her legs as fast as they would go, while digging into her pocket for her keys. It was difficult, but eventually she managed to get a grip on the chain, yanking them from her jeans. She frantically pressed the button on her keyfob, seeing the lights turn on in her car. Bebe nearly tripped while fumbling for the driver’s door handle, barely able to see with tears brimming the edges of her eyes. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, fueling her will to survive. She sobbed with relief when the door opened. Bebe was about to throw herself inside, before she looked up to catch another glimpse of the stranger chasing her. But, as she did, Bebe saw nothing. 

Swallowing and gasping as wretched cries stung her throat, she turned in every direction trying to pinpoint where the stranger had gone. But the fog was too thick for her to even see the outline of the locker room door, cascading a white abyss around all sides of the lot. Bebe swiped her free hand over her eyes, clearing her vision as she kept pivoting trying to find her attacker. She kept her other hand firmly gripped over the edge of her door, ready to jump into her car and slam it closed if necessary. Her cries died down, but her panic increased. She couldn’t see ten feet in front of her. She didn’t know where the stranger had gone, or at what point they’d stopped chasing her, but she knew they hadn’t left. 

Bebe heard gravel crunching under a shoe, trying to turn but she was too slow. A strong hand dug itself into her hair, firmly grabbing hold of her blonde curls and shoving her forward. She released a blood-curdling scream, soon cut off when her head was smashed into her driver’s side window. Sharp throbbing pain attacked all sides of her scalp, and when the glass didn’t break on impact, the stranger pulled her back to do it again.

This time, the window splintered and shattered from the force, and her car alarm instantly began blaring through the parking lot. Stray shards of glass tore through the skin on her neck and collarbone, drawing out long rivers of blood. Bebe screamed again, the sound of her voice drowned and diluted under the obnoxious noise of the car alarm. She barely had time to compose herself before a new pain ravaged her body, when the stranger plunged their knife into her side. They left her without the ability to beg for mercy, incoherently screeching when the blade was pulled from her flesh, only to be thrusted into the small of her back. Bebe arched her body with another agonizing scream, but the stranger wouldn’t stop.

Torrents of crimson poured from her wounds, staining her clothing and dripping onto the pavement. The stranger ripped the knife out of her back and stabbed it through her skin in a different spot. The pain was unbearable, and Bebe’s vision was starting to blur again – this time with black fuzz that contrasted so sharply against the fog. 

The stranger pulled Bebe up by the hair again, dragging her into their chest. She pleaded for her life through harrowing sobs, even though she knew it was already over. She would never get to see Clyde again, she would never see the day he finally opened his heart to her comforting and waiting hands. 

The last thing Bebe saw was the knife she had been stabbed with, silver coated with her own blood before it was sliced across her neck.

Chapter Text

Stan swiped his palm across the fogged glass of the bathroom mirror, staring into the tiresome pupils of his own eyes. Water dripped down his forehead and neck, glistening under the light of the morning sun. His eye bags were prominent, visible to anyone five feet in front of him. He didn’t like the way they weighed down his features, they were the only physical reminders he had of the last few sleepless nights, nights he’d spend chewing the insides of his cheek with worry. His thoughts ate him alive while he sweated with ice cold anguish, the unforgettable feeling of being mauled to death by guilt high on his mind. 

Stan scrubbed his hair damp with a towel, ridding the rest of his body of water that for once hadn’t come from his eyes. During the night, he’d wait until the house was soundless before letting go. It was easy to do, everything bottled up within his being couldn’t be contained forever, Stan knew that better than anyone. He’d spend every hour thinking, delving into the depths of his conscience trying to pull himself together. It usually worked, God knew he had his fair share of practice over the years, and it became a habit to mask his emotions once he realized that things were never going to get better. That thought was proven to be nothing but true, considering everything Stan had been through in the last week.

He quite literally walked through hell and crawled his way back out. He aided a murderer with covering their tracks, tampered with evidence that was crucial to Scott’s case, and still, he had other responsibilities. He had his father to impress, friends to comfort, and a reputation to uphold. 

Stan knew that today was going to royally fucking suck. A pep rally, to hype up tomorrow’s game – it was basically one big bullshit celebration. Something that seemed so amateur compared to everything else that was going on. Of course, no one else knew what Stan was going through, which meant that today would only entail countless reminders that he was alone. He would be forced to prance around the gymnasium acting as if his life wasn’t crumbling around him. As if the world wouldn’t hate him if his truths were to ever surface. But, like always, like every other day that had twisted sickly into something of a normal routine, Stan would just have to push through it with a smile. 

Walking back into his bedroom, he noticed his letterman jacket draped over his desk chair. He hadn’t touched it since he brought it home drenched and stuffy, stained with his mistakes. Stan put it through the washer and dryer three separate times, unconvinced that it would ever be as clean as it was before. He was afraid to even look at it, haunted by the memories he’d forged from his own recklessness. Scott’s blood wasn’t even visible anymore, physically the jacket was clean. Only Stan knew the truth, and it would stay that way until the day he died. The thought of wearing it still with the image in the back of his mind was less than appealing. But he knew that if he didn’t it would only raise suspicion. There was going to be a pep rally for god’s sake, everyone and their mothers would be wearing school colors. 

Stan put off grabbing the jacket until the absolute last second, picking a grey shirt from his closet and slipping it over his damp torso. He fumbled with a pair of black sweats, tying the drawstrings together for a comfier fit. And he stared, hard, while he folded his shoe laces over his fingers, wishing he would have been competent enough to double check his clothes for Scott’s blood. Maybe then he could have had a better chance of getting away with it. Maybe then he wouldn’t be drowning in his pigsty of a mind. 

Stan’s fingers grazed along the fabric of his jacket, hovering with hesitant potency. Everyone else on the team would be wearing their jerseys along with their varsity coats, there wasn’t a way that he could escape the unpleasantry of wearing his – not without getting shit from his father. Stan really wanted to avoid being lectured today, he already got an earful about perfecting his performance and that was enough for him. 

So, with a deep breath, he grabbed his jacket and hastily shoved his arms through the sleeves.

“Great.” Kyle muttered under his breath, watching the last few drops of milk pour from the gallon container in his hands. 

He knew that the day would come, but when his mother said that she’d already stocked up the fridge, he was hoping that she’d bought an extra container. She didn’t. Sighing with mild annoyance, Kyle tossed the empty jug into the trash can. He grabbed the bowl of cereal he’d prepared for himself, bringing it over to the dining room table. He had about fifteen minutes before Stan would show up, and usually he’d spend half of that taking his time while choosing his clothes, but Kyle was already dressed, which meant he could take time to eat in peace. 

He’d spent ten minutes debating with himself if he wanted to wear school colors, but ultimately decided that he would. He didn’t feel like being all ra-ra football rules today, but he also didn’t want to be the odd one out. Of course, he’d picked something subtle – a white long sleeved tee with dark green sweats. Minimal effort was still effort, and that way no one – mainly Cartman – could rip on him for not participating. 

A pep rally felt like such a silly idea after what happened to Scott. But, at the same time, it provided a sense of normalcy that Kyle had been craving. As hypocritical as that sounded, he was tired. He was tired of being sad. He wanted to just get used to it, considering it would take more than a week for him to get over Scott’s death, but what could he have expected from something he had zero experience in dealing with? Grief wasn’t a switch, he couldn’t just turn his feelings on and off, especially from something so traumatizing. Kyle felt like he did the night of Tolkien’s party, guilty and believing so intensely that sadness was the only way to cope. The only right way to cope. 

But maybe… maybe he didn’t have to look at it like that. Maybe he could believe that they really were trying to honor Scott. Kyle didn’t have to like it, he just had to understand it. Kenny was right, everyone had their way of dealing with what happened. He didn’t necessarily want to go to the pep rally, but if it helped him feel less empty, he would try. And, because his friends expected him to be there. If Kyle didn’t go for himself, he would for them. 

Rallies were never his thing, he’d never been that big into football or any other sport than basketball. And it wasn’t like South Park High had the budget to waste on parties for every team in the school, which was why they usually went all out when the occasion called for it. Kyle could only ever recall going to one of them, back in freshman year. But after Scott became a jock, after he revealed that he’d successfully made the team, he’d encouraged Kyle and the rest of their friends to start tagging along. To support him. 

Kenny was the one who made the pact. He’d texted their groupchat the previous night – a new one, too afraid to look at Scott’s old messages – saying it would be a good idea for them to go. He’d stolen Kyle’s words from the funeral, mentioning that it could mean closure for the whole group. No one argued. Cartman liked rallies, for the sole reason that he’d be given the opportunity to yell without any repercussions. His excitement convinced the rest of their friends to agree. 

Kyle was taking the final bite of his cereal before Ike entered the room, his open backpack slung messily over his arm. He rushed to the table and all but slammed a notebook down on the surface, ripping back the pages to a certain spot. Kyle watched with raised eyebrows, munching on his food while Ike scrambled to find a pencil in his bag, before hastily writing something down. 

Kyle stood up from his seat to bring his bowl to the sink. “You know, just because Mom and Dad aren’t here doesn’t mean you can slack off in school.”

“I’m not!” Ike protested with a fierce tone, clearly stressed. “I just– forgot to do my math homework.”

Kyle looked over his shoulder from the sink, rinsing the dish out with warm water. “Do you need help?” 

Ike shook his head, not lifting his eyes from his paper as he furiously scribbled. “No… I think I got it, my teacher just wants me to show my work.”

Kyle rolled his eyes, recalling how ruthless his middle school math teacher was as well. He’d had the same teacher as Ike – Mrs. Crabtree. “That’s still a thing? Isn’t it good enough that you know how to do it at all?”

“Apparently not.” Ike mumbled, flipping his pencil over to erase something. “It’s like Crabtree forgets that we have seven other freaking classes to deal with on top of hers.” 

“Oh the joy of being a seventh grader.” Kyle drawled, turning off the water and wiping his hands with a paper towel. “Just wait til’ you learn algebra.”

“I’d rather get run over by a tow truck.” Ike grumbled, erasing another stray line of lead on his paper. 

Kyle snorted, eyes drifting over the kitchen and landing on the refrigerator door. The whiteboard was the same as it always had been, the upper half decorated with meticulous handwriting, a list of four phone numbers lined up over one another. Kyle’s stare lingered over his mother’s phone number, feeling a twinge of remembrance roll down his spine. 

Gerald and Sheila were the type of parents to demand communication whenever their family was separated, even if it was something as minor as Kyle or Ike going to a sleepover. Kyle had to fight them a few years back because they’d insisted on downloading a tracker app on his phone. He’d managed to convince them that that was drastically overdoing it, and they backed down as long as Kyle promised to call them at least once a day. They’d eased up as Kyle and Ike grew older, still protective but allowed them a little more freedom than when they were children. Both of them still instinctively messaged their parents if they made plans to stay out later than usual, despite not being asked to. 

Their bridge of communication may have changed over the years, watered down to nothing more than collective shared locations, but Sheila always checked in with her sons. Always. And in the past week Kyle and Ike had been home by themselves, as far as he was concerned they hadn’t contacted either of them at all. 

Kyle looked away from the fridge, throwing the paper towel in the trash. “Has Mom texted you at all?”

Ike glanced up from the table as he was beckoned into another conversation. “No, why? Did she text you?”

“No, that’s my point.” Kyle said, subconsciously furrowing his brows. “It’s been almost a week since they left and they haven’t called. Don’t you think that’s a little weird? Even for them?”

Ike hummed, then shrugged one of his shoulders. “Maybe they just forgot?”

“Yeah, and the ocean isn’t made of saltwater. Like hell Mom and Dad forgot to check in on us, dude.” Kyle argued, unimpressed with Ike’s theory. 

The other boy blinked. “Okay, then maybe they’re busy having fun. You know, something we should be doing, instead of sitting and waiting for a ‘hey, we’re not dead’ phone call?” 

Kyle rolled his eyes, “Being home alone is only fun for you because you get to stay up late and eat ice cream on the couch. I’m the one who has to babysit you and make sure the goddamn house doesn’t burn down.” 

Ike set his pencil down on the table. “If you’re so worried why don’t you call them?” 

Kyle folded his arms, shifting his weight between both feet. “I’ve been kind of busy, Ike. My best friend’s funeral was yesterday and I’ve had more mental breakdowns this week than I’ve had in my entire life.” 

“That doesn’t correlate with your inability to pick up a phone, Kyle.” Ike reminded him. “Besides, I thought you hated their helicopter parenting? Why are you so upset that they haven’t asked us to recount the wine bottles in the liquor cabinet?” 

Kyle sighed. “I do hate their helicopter parenting, but I would still like to know if they made it onto the boat in one piece.” 

“If they didn’t, don’t you think we would have gotten a call about that by now? That our parents drowned or died in a plane crash?” Ike suggested. 

Kyle’s face scrunched up with distaste. “Dude, don’t even joke about that. That’s not funny.” 

It was Ike’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m just saying that if they weren’t fine, we would know about it. Stop being so uptight and enjoy having free will before it’s gone again.” 

Kyle huffed out a laugh, although Ike’s comment wasn’t at all amusing. “Jesus, you sound like Stan.” He said, not intended as a compliment. 

Ike cocked a brow, a mocking smile pulling at his lips. “If I’m not the first person to point out how uptight you are, then you have a problem.” 

Kyle scowled at his little brother, grabbing a random object off the counter to appear busy. He rolled the ballpoint pen between his fingers. “Shut up and do your homework.” 

Ike let out a deep sigh, returning to his assignment while Kyle left the room. He trudged down the foyer of the house, dropping the pen on the entry table as he passed it. He scrubbed his hand through his curls, forcing himself into a state of serenity. 

Ike had a point – it was Kyle’s own fault that he was worried for his parents. He could have called them or messaged them at any time during the week, quenching his thirst for the satisfaction that they were alright. But he didn’t. He had been so wrapped up in his own mind, bouncing between two walls that seemed to grow bigger with every waking minute. It was selfish, he’d admit that, thinking his parents were the only ones responsible for checking in, when really it went both ways. Kyle knew that Ike could care less, that was fine. He would just have to continue being the bigger sibling. 

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Kyle scrolled through his list of recent calls. His thumb hovered over his mother’s contact, close to pressing it – but he stopped. He paused his stride around the bannister of the staircase, eyes fixed on a specific name. Scott’s name. It stirred something inside him. Kyle stared at his screen until his peripheral vision became distorted, unblinking and fearful. 

The stranger hadn’t said a word to him since the night of Tolkien’s party. Kyle couldn’t believe he let himself forget about the calls, even after sitting through Scott’s funeral. He felt all the guilt come rushing back in a tidal wave of sickness. How could he have acted like he was getting closure, when Scott’s parents weren’t even near it? How could he have sat amongst Scott’s family members and acted as if he wasn’t withholding information from the police? Information that could not only help find a lead on Scott’s killer, but could help put some ease on Ellen and Clark’s minds. 

Kyle remembered the voice – how it tore through his ears with a sinister violence, bleeding him dry with hot scalding terror. It was distinct, yet unrecognizable. He’d never heard anything like that in his life. Maybe that was part of the reason it was burned so vividly into his memory. Etched onto the same walls which were crushing him inside his mind. A part of him wished he was smart enough to listen to Kenny, listen to his words of reason knowing the blonde was only trying to help. Kenny was always only trying to help. But that was Kyle’s job, wasn’t it? Blatantly disregard every ounce of advice given to him? Believe as though his theories were the only correct perspective?

Kyle had been referred to as stubborn for as long as he could remember. His mother used to approach it as a strength, not a weakness – she’d told him that being stubborn meant that he would be less inclined to back away from something he wanted. Less inclined to overturn his own passions to please those around him. For the most part, it was true. Kyle was stubborn alright. But lately it didn’t feel like much of a strength to him.

Suddenly, a notification popped up onto his screen. Kyle briefly glanced at the text message, from a contact he hadn’t yet grown used to seeing. 

From: Stan: i’m here. hurry up

Stan watched Kyle as the redhead fumbled with his orange jacket, struggling to push his arms through the holes without his long sleeved shirt riding up his wrists. He shut the front door behind him and began his walk towards the driveway, where the quarterback waited in his jeep. Stan huffed to himself, a brief puff of air through his nostrils when he realized the colors of Kyle’s clothing. He didn’t think that of all people, Kyle would participate in the pep rally. 

The passenger’s side door opened and the shorter boy hopped up onto the seat, pulling on his gloves that matched the color of his hat. When the door was shut and the jeep was engulfed with hot air flowing from the vents, Stan threw the car into reverse. 

“Never pegged you for the school spirit type.” He said, nonchalantly as Kyle strapped his seatbelt over his chest. Stan could already sense the side-eyed glare he was given in return. 

“I’m not.” Kyle denied, as if he wasn’t wearing school colors. “I’m only going to this thing because everyone expects me to.” 

Stan’s eyebrows raised at that, only for a moment as he pushed the gear shift into drive. He tried to hide it, his look of genuine surprise, but he couldn’t necessarily help it – not when Kyle had just summarized everything he had been thinking. If he could, Stan would throw him out of his car and drive home. He would lay on his bed and scroll between apps on his phone like there was no tomorrow. He’d much rather his brain be rotted from blue light pixels than strain his lips with a fake smile for the rest of the day. At that point, even dying sounded more appealing. 

But Stan could already envision the kind of argument Randy would force on him if he skipped out. He could see the punishment that followed. He could see the bruises and welts on his arms, colorizing his skin with violent notches of purple and black. It wasn’t worth it. At least not to him. Still, he wouldn’t lie about being excited for it. 

“Yeah, well, that much we agree on.” He mumbled, not quite intending for Kyle to hear it, but the quarters between them were already small. Between the walls of the jeep, his whisper wasn’t so quiet. The redhead turned his head to face him, an amused glint shining between his eyes. 

“What, you mean big shot quarterback Stan Marsh doesn’t like pep rallies?” Kyle teased, exaggerating with a backhanded compliment.

Stan swallowed his tongue, which desperately wanted to spit back an insult. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then what were you implying?” Kyle asked, budging on a subject he had no business with. 

“Why do you care?” 

Kyle shrugged his shoulders while he folded his arms. “I don’t. But you’re the one who started a conversation, you don’t have to be an ass about it.”

Stan rolled his eyes, regretting even opening his mouth to begin with. “I made an observation. You didn’t have to respond.” 

“But I did.” Kyle declared, smug as if he’d won their non-existent argument. “So now we’re having a conversation.”

The quarterback let out a long sigh, gripping the edges of his steering wheel with much more force than he’d expected from his muscles. They were still sore from the previous night, Randy forced him to double down on his training since practice was cancelled for the funeral. The hot shower had helped ease the pain a little, but Stan knew full well that he should be expecting it to circle back as the day progressed. 

“Jesus, you’re gonna make my fucking head explode.” He grumbled, shutting his eyes with brief irritation before shaking it off. “Just forget I said anything.”

Kyle turned towards the window with a scowl. “Fine.”

“Fine.” 

The last thing Stan wanted to do was talk about his feelings, especially to someone like Kyle. He knew that their momentary truce was well over, and anything that was said between them now would be far from genuine. Not that he’d even want to confide in the redhead in the first place, it would feel the same as asking his friends for money – weird and embarrassing. And he was pretty damn sure that that sentiment was mutual. 

Stan let his music fill the silence that gripped him with iron hands. It was cold that morning. The sky was all one color, sun tucked behind grey clouds that stretched on for miles. He could tell that it was going to rain soon, Stan didn’t expect much less from the autumn forecast, he only hoped that the storm wouldn’t roll into tomorrow. He was already expected to do well during the kickoff game against Middle Park, but playing on wet grass was like asking for a broken bone. If the universe didn’t cut him some slack, it wasn’t going to be very pretty.

When Stan pulled into the parking lot, it was already crowded. He could hear the hoots and hollers of surrounding students as they entered the school, flashing green and white. He caught glimpses of neon signs bigger than his head, which only prompted him to roll his eyes. If there was another thing Stan didn’t look forward to other than the rally itself, it was having to strain his eyes while trying to read all the words of encouragement on every poster. 

He parked the jeep in his designated spot, wasting no time in jumping from his seat. Kyle followed his movements. Stan rounded the side of the jeep and opened his backdoor, dragging out his sports bag which laid across the leather seat. He hugged it under his arm and shut the door, not bothering to lock it behind him. Getting his car stolen was the least of his worries today. 

When Stan turned around again, he saw Kyle already heading towards the school. Not a word was spoken emphasizing his departure, none ever were. Kyle simply just didn’t care. Stan supposed that he didn’t either, and it wasn’t as if he’d expect anything different from the other teen – yet he still paused, ceasing his step forward while he watched the redhead walk away. Kyle’s pace was rushed, almost like he couldn’t wait to escape Stan’s vicinity. Stan huffed again. Yeah, their truce was definitely over. 

He forced himself to look away, focusing on his own path towards the school. He made a beeline for the locker rooms, passing by several small groups of students cheering him on. Stan forced his lips up into a smile, long enough for it to seem genuine. It disappeared the second he turned his back, his peers oblivious to his true emotions. The football field was just as chaotic, Stan caught the cheerleading team getting a last minute practice in before the rally began. He would have been doing the same, but on days like this his father insisted that a pep talk was more inspiring. 

“Where the hell is Bebe?!” Wendy’s unmistakable voice called out from the field, gaining Stan’s attention. From the looks of it, the girl was all over the place. He could only imagine their collective stress from having to perfect a routine. 

As soon as Stan opened the locker room door, all he could hear were the sounds of yelling and hollering. The noise levels only increased as he rounded the corner, stepping into view of the rest of his team. They were gathered around their lockers, each member wearing their letterman jackets with overwhelming senses of pride. Stan couldn’t miss the white face paint on the sides of their cheeks, displaying their respective numbers along with the word ‘ Cows’. He sighed, knowing he’d likely have to paint his own cheeks before it was time to start the rally. 

“When I say South Park, you say Cows!” Tolkien screamed, circling the middle of the room with his hands cupped around his mouth. “South Park!”

“Cows!”

“South Park!”

“Cows!”

“When I say South Park, you say Cows!” 

Stan snuck past the commotion to his own locker, trying desperately not to draw attention to himself. Tolkien seemed immersed in hyping up the team as much as he could, even with the events of the previous week. Stan guessed he could find some sort of envy there, Tolkien’s leadership skills were the main reason he was given the captain title. He was everything that Stan wasn’t – selfless, courageous, well-composed… it would be foolish not to grant him that opportunity. 

The yelling continued even when Stan was out of the way. He dropped his sports bag on the bench and opened his locker, shoving his backpack inside. His hand lingered on the door with a tight grip, letting go would mean the start of his catastrophic day. Back in his bathroom, after a hot shower and twenty minutes of reassuring himself, Stan thought that he would be okay. He thought that he was severely overthinking it, but now he wasn’t so sure. He imagined it – running around the gym under the eyes of a thousand other students who believed nothing was wrong, playing the game in Middle Park stadium while he juggled his conscience and inner truths. It sounded like a recipe for disaster, a disaster that Stan created himself.

God, if he’d just called the police. If he had half the mind to get help then maybe he wouldn’t feel so suffocated in his own body. Maybe everyone would be on his side. Instead of wallowing in his self-pity he could be telling his story on the news. People would support him. He wouldn’t have to spend his time regretting every other choice he made that morning. 

Stan could see it — he could see the moment everything would fall into place. He could see the grave looks plastered over the faces of his peers, his friends, everyone he’d ever loved. He could see himself with his hands cuffed behind his back, he could hear Yates reciting his rights with a smug grin. He knew it would happen, he knew the day would come, he couldn’t hide forever. Maybe it wouldn’t be today, or tomorrow, but someday — they were going to find Scott’s truck. Someday, he would get what he deserved. 

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” 

Stan snapped his head to the left, laying eyes on his father. Randy held himself with a looming posture, but maybe that’s always the way Stan saw him. His father clutched a clipboard in his hand, his other occupied with a football which was sloppily painted green and white. 

“Did you hear a goddamn word I just said?” Randy demanded, clasping his eyebrows together with annoyance. “Christ, it’s like you’re deaf or something!”

Stan shoved down the kindling urge to retaliate, instead just turning away to stare into his locker again. “Sorry.”

Randy rolled his eyes, sighing loudly to emphasize his disapproval. “You’re going to PC’s office at lunch. Apparently it’s your turn for grief counseling.”

Stan paused. He’d forgotten all about that. He didn’t want to talk to PC, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He could barely look anyone in the eye after what happened. 

“But I don’t—“

“Don’t care. You’re going, end of story.” Randy wasn’t having it. “Now go get ready, we’re out in twenty.” 

The man disappeared from the row of lockers, heading back towards the team, likely to prepare for his annual pep talk. Stan knew it would do jack shit to encourage him, like every other weak attempt thrown at him to try and cheer him up. 

He shut his locker with a slam, rolling his shoulders back before trudging out from between the aisle.

“Ugh, it’s like Tolkien’s party all fucking over again.” Kyle cringed, side-stepping a group of boys stampeding through the hallway. “I forgot how insane people get over these things. It looks like party fucking city threw up in here!”

Insane was a vast understatement, Kyle decided, because walking through the school was like maneuvering through a riot parade. Green and white colored ribbon hung from the lockers and ceiling, with matching confetti littered all across the tile floor. Kyle could barely hear himself think as he moved, thoughts drowned out by whooping and cheering — he was pretty sure there were about five different pre-game chants being yelled out around him. The intercom wasn’t helping, blasting a pre-recorded hype song played by South Park High’s marching band. 

Kyle’s ears were assaulted from all angles by the various sounds, making for a pretty easy way to piss him off. He had forgotten just how annoying pep rally days could be, especially because it had almost been a full year since the last. The South Park Cows were good, but they hadn’t had a lot of luck during the championship games. The school lent a lot of money to still make the rallies happen, yet none of them paid off in the end. Maybe that’s why they insisted on being so excessive during kickoff week. 

“COWS! COWS! COWS! COWS!” A group of teens shouted as they barreled past Kyle and his friends, pumping their fists in the air. Kyle rolled his eyes so far into the back of his head the motion almost caused him pain. 

It was only him, Kenny and Tweek so far — Butters had texted their groupchat letting them know that he and Cartman were trapped behind a crowd in the lobby, and they weren’t going to try and fight their way through. They made a plan to meet up in front of the gym, so they’d at least be able to stick together on the bleachers. 

“Do you think you’ll be okay at the rally, Kyle?!” Tweek asked, as the three of them stopped around Kyle’s locker. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to! Just saying!” 

Kyle sighed, rotating the code into his lock before swinging open the door. He slid his backpack off his shoulders and unzipped the biggest pocket.

“No, I want to.” He said, not lying but not being truthful. He took out two of his binders and stuffed them onto the top shelf. “…I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed. This is a pretty big step up from sitting in a chair and watching people cry yesterday.”  

Kenny leaned on the wall next to him, carefree of the chaos which ensued from both sides of the hall. Tweek’s eyes were blown wide as he jerked his head in every direction, high on alert.

“Point made, and point seen.” Kenny said, folding his arms over his chest. “But, Ky, don’t feel like you have to go because of us. If you’re uncomfortable—“

Kyle groaned. He really was tired of that. “Kenny, shut the hell up, okay? I promise I’ll be fine, you don’t have to keep doing that.”

Kenny cocked a brow, interest piqued. “Doing what?” 

Kyle shoved his backpack into his locker. “Second guessing me. If I say I want to go, then I want to go.” 

Another half-truth. Kyle’s sole reason for being there was because of Scott. Him missing the rally would have felt like he was letting him down, if that was even possible. Kyle knew what Scott would want in a situation like this. He’d want to see his friends in the stands, cheering him and the rest of his team on. But to Kyle, it just didn’t feel right. His only friend on the team was gone, what was the point of wasting his time? He had no other reason for being there, other than not disappointing his friends. 

Kenny raised his hands in mock surrender, reluctantly letting the topic go. Kyle appreciated him for respecting his decision, but he couldn’t help the sharp yet brief pang of guilt which pierced his heart. Kenny just wanted to make sure he was okay, Kyle had no right to discourage anything the blonde did to ease his own nerves. Kenny was being a good friend, something that Kyle had trouble with doing over the last few days. 

Once the song over the intercom ended, the noise was replaced by the first period bell. Morning classes were cancelled for the pep rally, which usually, Kyle wouldn’t put up a fight about. Even if he’d had the option to work instead of celebrate, focusing with all the surrounding clamor was out of the question. But hearing that bell only worsened his anxiety. He would much rather be anywhere else than in the gym, but Kyle couldn’t back out. He had to go. He made a commitment, he promised his friends. He didn’t want them to think of him as weak. 

So, he turned to Kenny and Tweek, smiling softly. “Here goes nothing, right?”

The marching band drums boomed with a steady beat, a serenade for a routine that Wendy Testaburger had spent weeks preparing. Kyle didn’t know where to look as the cheerleaders kept moving, flipping with practiced speeds. Their green and white uniforms blurred together as they spun and danced, a mesmerizing sight, even to him. Kyle recognized Heidi Turner, as she was lifted into the air by steady and careful hands. Heidi waved her pom-poms around before she was thrown higher above the floor, tucking her arms in while she spun and pummeled back down towards the team. The cheerleaders caught her with ease, as if they were waiting for a feather to drop. They lifted her again, and Heidi barely broke a sweat, stretching her arms out into a T position. 

On the ground, in front of the pyramid, was a separate routine – Red McArthur and Jenny Simons performed handspring after handspring side by side, ending with perfect backflips without missing a step. The music picked up, the band blew through trumpets, trombones and flutes until the melody became more upbeat, and the cheering became more intense. There were crowds on two sides of the gym, each level of the bleachers assaulted with stomps and shakes as the students let loose. No one was sitting down, not even the antisocial kids off to the side of the steps – but Kyle assumed that was because they really had no choice. He could barely see anything and he was already standing. 

Heidi was thrown upwards once more, flipping wildly before she was caught and lowered back to the ground. The cheerleaders lined up to begin a dance sequence, Wendy in the middle leading the routine. Kyle watched their school mascot – a cow with a football jersey – dash out onto the floor, pumping their fists in the air on beat to the music. The cheerleaders continued dancing, swaying their hips and synchronously waving their arms. The mascot joined in, albeit much more messy than the people who had practiced. The music reached a crescendo, and everything became much louder.

The gym itself was decorated to the max, ribbon and confetti hung low from the ceiling, matching the rest of the hallways. A balloon arch was situated in the middle of the floor, made up of green and white latex, stretching up about fifteen feet. There was a rolled up banner attached to the top, probably something that was meant to be dropped once the football team appeared. They really liked to make an entrance. 

Kyle ignored the whooping and hollering around him, pulling out his phone to check for messages. Or, maybe he just wanted something else to do. He checked all of his apps, scrolling between them while waiting for the chance to occupy himself with something other than watching a dance routine. Although, it was his own fault – Kyle had insisted that he wanted to be here, and now he was paying for it. 

He felt someone nudge him on the shoulder. Thinking it was a random kid who was getting out of hand with the cheering, Kyle snapped towards them with an angry glare. 

“Woah, dude.” Kenny immediately backed off, gesturing to the redhead’s phone. “I was just gonna ask if you were bored?” 

Kyle relaxed at the sight of the blonde, forgetting that he had been next to him. He shut his phone off and focused on him. “No, I’m just… I don’t know. It’s a pep rally, what else is there to do but sit and observe?”

Kenny shrugged one of his shoulders. “You didn’t have to come, Ky. I didn’t mean to make you feel pressured, I just thought it would be good for us to do something fun… instead of… you know.”

“Moping around?” Kyle huffed, a genuine smile pulling on his lips. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s all this week has consisted of.”

“Exactly.“ Kenny agreed. “But, if at any point you want to leave—” He paused, waiting for Kyle to cut him off and deny the offer. But the moment never came. Kyle decided to hear him out, for once in his life. “—I’ll tag along. We can walk to Sizzler’s or something.

Kyle rolled his eyes. “I’m sure ditching school would go over really well with PC Principal.” 

“Offer still stands!” Kenny exclaimed, holding out his hands. 

Kyle slapped them away, smiling fondly just as the band’s song finished its last few notes. The cheerleaders performed their final moves, flipping and spinning before posing as the music stopped. The crowd roared with applause and cheers, waving signs and foam fingers above their heads. Of course they couldn’t save those until game night. Kyle was well aware of how chaotic these events could get. 

The cheerleaders and mascot cleared the floor, retreating off towards the bleachers to make room for the next act. Kyle clapped his hands, albeit lazily, to at least show some form of support. He couldn’t really bring himself not to, since he used to do that all the time when he’d come to cheer on Scott. 

“And, let’s hear it for your Cows!” 

Everyone’s attention was directed towards the locker rooms, where a thin white banner was stretched across the doorway. It was painted with the Cows’ logo, surrounded by green confetti and glitter. There was a brief drumroll from the band, students joining in by stomping their feet on the bleachers. The banner was torn down the middle when a body rammed through it. Tolkien Black raised his hands to the crowd, relishing in the drastic increase of volume as he jogged across the floor. The rest of the football team followed, winking and smiling as they faced their fans.

Kyle continued clapping, but kept a straight face – drifting his eyes over the players as they emerged from the locker room. The cheerleaders sprung up into another dance routine, a simple one to welcome the main act of the morning. The music picked up again, back to an exciting crescendo. Kyle’s hands gradually slowed their pace until he was barely hitting them together, he didn’t really feel like Stan Marsh deserved a round of applause from him. 

The quarterback in question came into view, nodding his head towards a group of students chanting his name, holding up signs with his name and jersey number. Stan followed the team until they reached the middle of the gym, lining up side by side next to the balloon arch. The cheering continued, relentless screams and hollers of pride before they were forced to die down – Tolkien was handed a microphone from his coach, Randy Marsh, and stepped forward.

“Good morning South Park High!” He bellowed out, his voice echoing between the walls of the gym. The crowd responded with more yelling. He waited for the students to finish before speaking again. “First off, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your overwhelming support–”

Kyle held back a shudder as a nearby student let out an ear-piercing hoot, bouncing on their feet with the rest of them. 

“—Without you all, we wouldn’t be half as confident playing Middle Park on the field! Give yourselves a big hand!” 

Kyle was pressured into clapping again, joining the rest of his classmates while the gym was once again filled with yelling. Tolkien let it last a little longer this time, encouraging his own teammates to clap as well. Stan’s eyes bounced around the bleachers, not quite wanting to settle on anything specific. He wanted to stay sharp. For what, however, he wasn’t quite sure. He could feel the small breeze coming from students who fanned their signs towards the players, air blowing against his painted cheeks. Finishing touches didn’t take long, Stan brushed his own number and the name of the team onto both his cheeks, struggling with attempting not to write it backwards. 

Kyle huffed, still clapping as he studied each team members’ faces, deciding that facepaint was a little over the top for a pep rally. It amused him on astronomical levels to see that Stan had been subject to the same torture, the number 12 with a hashtag in front of it standing out like a sore thumb. The word ‘Cows’ was messily stained onto his other cheek, the color was already starting to chafe and it hadn’t even been long since the rally started.

Stan let a long sigh escape through his lips, masking the movement so it wasn’t noticeable. He continued glancing around the gym, until his eyes landed on a familiar face. He never thought he’d ever get used to seeing Kyle so much again, after years of not paying him any attention. But right then and right there, Kyle was looking straight at him – doing the same. Stan could have chalked it up as coincidence, a brief moment where their eyes locked before passing onto other areas of the room, but something told him that this was intentional. 

Something sparked in his gut, something he didn’t quite recognize. Stan was easily reminiscent of Scott’s funeral, a parallel moment where he and Kyle locked eyes just like this – seconds before they chose to disregard their mutual hatred, just for one day. Could this be something similar? Stan didn’t know, this was certainly not a funeral, nor a time of intense peril – there wasn’t a valid reason for Kyle to even be looking at him. And yet he was. What did that mean? Why hadn’t he turned away yet? Why the hell did Stan even care?

He waited for a nod, any kind of motion to signify respect, but the longer Stan stared the quicker his expectations had depleted. The nod never came. 

Kyle wasn’t sure what was stopping him from pulling his eyes away, maybe the mere curiosity as to why Stan hadn’t looked away first. Or maybe it was why Stan was even looking at him in the first place. Did he want something? Was he waiting for Kyle to cheer him on? Because if that was the case, the ravenette was incredibly delusional – someone would have to hold a gun to Kyle’s head before he’d even think about it. 

“And of course, of course… I have to give a special shout-out to the most gorgeous fans of all time–” Tolkien removed one of his hands from the microphone, gesturing to the cheerleaders. “South Park Cows’ very own cheer squad!”

Kyle took the opportunity to break eye contact, just as the focus was shifted onto Wendy and her team. Applause rounded its course over the bleachers again, but this time he opted out. It wasn’t long before it became quiet, before Tolkien’s demeanor slowly dissolved into something more serious.

“...I think I can speak for most of us when I say that it’s been a tough week for South Park.” He said, gripping the microphone with both hands. Tolkien turned around to face the other side of the gym, to face the other crowd. “...The loss of Scott Malkinson was some of the worst news I’ve ever gotten.” 

Kyle threw a glance at Kenny, he watched the glint of interest die out in the blonde’s eyes. He bit down on his bottom lip, facing forward again.

“...But I know that if he were here right now, he wouldn’t want us to be so down.” Tolkien rolled his shoulders back, turning to Kyle’s side of the gym again. “Scott was one of the toughest people I knew. When he played the game, he didn’t play it for himself. He played it for us. For you. All of you.”

There were a few scattered cheers, coming from people who couldn’t read the room. But for the most part, the gym was dead silent. Signs which were once held high over heads were now being lowered, down beneath the sea of students.

“He believed in us. He believed in himself.” Tolkien stated, his tone growing inspirational. “And in dark times like these, we need something to believe in too!” 

The volume of Tolkien’s voice had encouraged more yells, rivaling the quiet. The captain turned, fixing his gaze on one of his teammates. Kyle watched Clyde Donovan as a smile appeared on his lips, now under the spotlight. 

“I have a lot of words to say, Clyde. But I know you can say them better.” Tolkien announced, before offering out the microphone towards the other boy.

Kyle couldn’t quite hear the next few words spoken, especially as the audience took that as a reason to start yelling again, but he assumed it was something positive, since Clyde stepped forward and grabbed the microphone. He switched places with the captain, standing under the balloon arch and shooting Tolkien a thankful smile. Clyde waited patiently for the clapping to slow, Kyle could tell just by the way Clyde held himself that he wasn’t used to giving speeches.

“Thank you… everyone.” The linebacker began, fiddling with the cord on the bottom of the microphone. “I… just want to start off by saying.. how much I miss my best friend.”

Stan chose to stare down at the floor, unable to trust himself with avoiding eye contact with his peers. He knew he could avoid crying, but he didn’t need to cry in order to appear upset. He didn’t want people seeing him so vulnerable. 

“Scott was my brother, in everything but blood.” Clyde said, voice wavering as he held back his tears. “I don’t think there will ever be a day in my life where that role will be filled again. And I don’t want it to be.”

Kyle wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling exposed. Clyde’s words felt like a sort of call out, to anyone that was grieving the same way as him. 

“Scott was so strong. His life could be ten kinds of chaos, and he’d never wear it on his face. He’d never let his troubles get the best of him. He was a better man than I could only hope to be.” Clyde sniffled, the sound echoing through the mic. He was beginning to crumble, but he still stood tall. Kyle was surprised he lasted this long without bursting into tears. “So when I say, that tomorrow night, I wanna win for him… I mean it!”

Kyle looked up as the signs were back, held high and proud. There were a few whistles and claps, building up Clyde’s confidence.

“And when I say, that tomorrow night, we’re gonna win for him… I mean it!” 

The cheers were longer and louder now. Stan swiped his hand under his nose, double checking his state before lifting his head up. Clyde looked up at the crowd before him, lifting one of his hands towards the ceiling. He pointed, at nothing, seemingly just for effect. Stan bit back a smile. 

“We’re gonna kick Middle Park’s ass, and we’re gonna do it for Scott!” Clyde shouted, and the audience nearly exploded with applause. Somehow, the yelling was even louder than when the rally first started – probably for Clyde’s carelessness about his language. He would get away with it, because Principal Victoria knew the kinds of things he was going through. 

Kyle felt the bleachers shake beneath his feet as people began jumping again. His arms stayed still over his chest, unmoving while everything around him did the opposite. The marching band began another song, a short build up to another up-beat tune. His ears were butchered with shouts and whistles, and before Kyle knew it he was falling. His legs folded and he collapsed onto the bench below him, gripping his biceps to keep himself tethered to reality. He knew that this wasn’t the time to fall victim to his mind, to overthink himself into an emotional coma, but Kyle couldn’t help it. Clyde’s words had struck a nerve, a nerve that for the last week – had been exposed and on the brink of snapping. 

His head filled itself with fuzz, and it felt like the world was spinning. Kyle was brought back to Wendy’s cheerleading routine, the way Heidi twirled in the air at the speed of light. The imagery didn’t help calm him down. Just picturing it caused a wave of nausea to wash over his entire being. Suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly, making everything worse. Kyle could feel his stomach churn, and his skin was lit on fire. Blankets of heat fell over him, everything was so tight he could barely move. He could barely breathe.

“Ky. Ky?! Can you hear me, dude?!” Kenny’s voice weaseled its way into his ears, over the ringing and ricocheting of his own thoughts. Kyle tried blocking it out, but he couldn’t even block out the music. Or the yelling. It was impossible.

Then, those same hands on his shoulders moved under his arms, trying to lift him. He protested at first, any kind of movement jostling the nausea inside him. He was afraid if he moved even an inch, he would double over and release his breakfast. But Kenny wouldn’t let up, determined to help the redhead. 

“Kyle, you gotta work with me, here.” He said, lowering his voice to a softer tone. He must have known that freaking out wasn’t the right way to handle a breakdown. He was smart like that. “Can you stand? Come on, dude. Stand up for me.”

Despite the way his throat itched and tickled at the thought of it, Kyle listened to Kenny, leaning all his weight into his arms and forcing his legs to straighten. His head immediately felt lighter, being above ground and not trapped between walls of people. He felt Kenny pull him down the row, politely yet hurriedly asking for space. Kyle thought he heard Cartman say something, probably a half-assed insult, the same old ones he’d use on a daily basis. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too focused on not collapsing again. 

Stan was clapping as enthusiastically as his muscles allowed, trying to show some support for Clyde. He truly was proud of the boy, he’d managed to get through an entire speech without crying, even if it was a short one. Stan couldn’t necessarily say the same for himself. Although he had yet to say anything about Scott, he wasn’t sure that anything he could come up with would sound genuine. The only word that came to his mind when he thought of Scott, was guilt. Dirty, bitter guilt. And it was his own fault, wasn’t it?

Stan swallowed a lump in his throat as he turned away from Clyde, trying to focus on anything other than his regrets. He found himself looking into the crowd again, at a particular spot which he’d looked at before. But, something was different. Stan’s eyebrows knitted together as he looked around, trying to spot his missing target. He noticed a head of red hair hurrying across the row, towards the steps. What was that all about?

Kenny dragged Kyle down the stairs and off the bleachers entirely, and once Kyle felt solid ground under his feet, the sickness stilled into something more manageable. He waited until they were out of the way, having to maneuver past the cheerleaders in order to reach the side of the bleachers, before pulling his arm from Kenny’s grip.

Kenny immediately paused, turning back and checking on him. Kyle placed his hands on his thighs, hanging his neck between his shoulder blades. He let his breath catch up to him, all the movements he’d made after swearing anything was going to make him puke. He waited until the nausea disappeared, until his skin stopped burning. 

Kyle stood up straight, leaning his back against the wall. He gulped, swallowing down the last few pins and needles. “I… I-I’m okay.”

“You’re okay?” Kenny sounded skeptical. He had every right to be. 

Kyle nodded vigorously, eyes still shut to avoid the bright lights of the gym. He hummed. “Okay.”

“Okay, let’s go to the nurse,” Kenny instructed, hovering his hands over Kyle’s back as he pushed off the wall. 

Stan craned his neck upwards towards the top of the balloon arch, where the banner was beginning to roll down. The crowd continued cheering, Clyde’s heartfelt speech plucking at the heartstrings of everyone in the room. The linebacker was basking in the attention, too busy to realize that if he didn’t move soon, he would block the entire banner once it was completely untied. 

As he was facing the exit, Stan caught sight of Kyle standing with Kenny McCormick off to the side of the bleachers. Even from where he stood, the redhead looked as if he were about to keel over and die. Classic case of a panic attack, Stan concluded, curious as to where Kyle was planning on going. Both sets of doors were blocked by a crowd of teachers, who would surely ask questions if they thought that students were trying to ditch the rally. 

Stan’s view of Kyle was then slightly obstructed, as something else caught his attention. As the banner was unraveled over Clyde’s head, something dark and red poured from between the layers. Stan thought it was paint, the way it trickled down the paper in streaks, slowly at first – before it was raining down in torrents, completely drenching Clyde. The linebacker finally started to move, spinning around to find the cause of what was just spilled over his head. 

When the banner was fully unrolled, Stan caught a brief glimpse of that same red substance, splattered over something long as it dropped onto the ground with a splat following suit. The team stared, Stan stared, and Clyde stared – all taking a moment to figure out what they were looking at. A suffocating silence descended over the room, and Stan wished it never registered. Maybe if he had more time to realize the possibilities, he could have avoided seeing it. 

Kyle wondered why everything was suddenly so quiet, compared to the thunderous volume of cheering that he’d just heard, moments ago. He turned around towards the middle of the room, disregarding Kenny as he argued with a few teachers. Kyle guessed he was trying to convince them that he was sick, but suddenly that didn’t matter anymore. Suddenly, there were much bigger problems on their hands. Kyle was looking at one right now, with wide blown eyes and jaw agape with pure terror.

Clyde fell back onto the floor, releasing a horrified scream while clambering away from the blood. Stan took rapid steps backwards as well, slapping his palm over his mouth. The team followed him, moving to escape the scene before them. 

Bebe’s body lay limply on the ground, maimed with cuts and wounds for the entire gymnasium to see.

Chapter Text

Stan’s entire body felt numb, numb to the point where the only sense that worked was his sight. He knew he was moving, he could see the world pass him by as he power-walked through the hallway, dodging students who stampeded the other way. But he couldn’t hear the jumbled voices around him, nor the message they were trying to convey. He couldn’t feel his shoulder bumping against Craig’s as they moved with a matching pace, or the way his fists opened and closed with pulsing anxiety. 

The gym had been evacuated with desperate coordination – Stan felt like he was watching himself from a third person point of view, standing in the middle of the room while people scrambled off the bleachers, tripping and collapsing under the mass hysteria caused by something so horrific. It took him a while to start moving, and it wasn’t even on his own accord. Someone had grabbed his arm with a tight clasp of their hand, dragging him towards the exit followed by the rest of the team. His upper body felt paralyzed, legs moving mindlessly as if cut off from the rest of his nervous system. Kevin Stoley let go of him as soon as they were able to find space in the shitstorm around them, dropping his arm and following the crowd in whatever direction they were headed. 

Stan wasn’t sure how much time had passed since then. He figured it must have been longer than a few minutes, long enough for him and his friends to regroup, to try and figure out what was going on. They were all collectively shaken up, rightfully so, after witnessing Bebe’s body fall at Clyde’s feet. None of them knew what to do, what steps to take to even consider the next course of action. It was abundantly clear that Principal Victoria didn’t either, if her choice to gather each student in the library was anything to go by. 

Stan knew what was happening, it wasn’t rocket science. He wasn’t shocked to see that every lockdown drill they’d practiced over the years went disregarded, but there wasn’t anyone to blame for that. It was different when everyone was panicking. It was different when the threat was actually real. 

Yates and the rest of the South Park police force appeared rather quickly at the front doors of the school, almost like they were already there. Stan ignored how that pegged him as odd, he wasn’t worried about Yates. Not right now. 

His heart beat wildly against his chest, hammering his ribs with dread. He and his friends had made it halfway to the library, before Tolkien realized that something about that wasn’t right. The captain didn’t give much of an explanation regarding his actions, but Stan followed him nonetheless. He trusted Tolkien. Once it became evident that he was heading back towards the gym, the rest of their friends joined in. They wrote off each and every soul around them, even the teachers trying desperately to direct them back to the library. 

When they reached the gym, Tolkien didn’t waste any time. He pushed his legs to run faster than before, slamming into the door. He burst into the room, uncaring of his disorderly entrance. Stan was behind him, as were Craig and Kevin — but his sense of urgency never came. Instead, Stan found himself slowing to a stop once his eyes fell on the scene before him.

The gym wasn’t empty. Stan recognized the tall and burly redheaded man stood with his hands on his hips, even with his back facing him. He’d already known that Yates was in the school, but he was hoping to avoid him for longer than this. Murphy was there too, arms folded and face poised with a serene expression. Why the man looked so calm was beyond Stan, it would have disturbed him if not for the main focus of the room. 

Clyde had barely moved even as Bebe’s blood began to pool around him. He stood on shaking legs, almost every inch of him painted red from the contents surrounding him. The blood had started to dry, crusting over his skin and clothes to ensure nasty stains. Stan could only think of how ironic it was, how he’d freaked out over a simple small patch of Scott’s blood when Clyde was now drenched with Bebe’s. He knew that this wasn’t the same situation, not by a long shot, but for some reason it felt familiar. He didn’t like that it felt familiar. Stan felt pins and needles prick his limbs. He swallowed a lump in his throat, esophagus drier than a desert sandstorm. The blood wasn’t even the worst part. 

Bebe’s body was sprawled across the floor at Clyde’s feet, her skin cold and colored a sickly pale. Her back was twisted to the side, thankfully facing the bleachers instead of the terrified linebacker. Her blood mixed with the colors of her sweater, blending together and soaking through the fabric. Her hair was stained, too, yellow strands now brown with dried blood. Stan pressed the back of his hand over his mouth, suppressing a gag at the sight of a dead body. Bebe’s arms were draped messily at her sides, streaked with the same color as the rest of her. It didn’t look… real. Stan had known Bebe since freshman year, he’d seen her almost every day of his life for the past four years. But now, seeing her limp and lifeless on the ground, Stan was speechless. 

A bright white flash then appeared around Clyde, and it only took a second for Stan to find the source. There was a third figure in the room, circling the boy while holding a camera. Horror churned in Stan’s stomach once it hit him. They were taking pictures. Of Clyde. Of Bebe. 

“CLYDE!” Tolkien screamed, taking off towards the middle of the gym, towards the boy covered in crimson. “CLYDE!”

Craig and Kevin followed after him, but they weren’t able to get far. Yates and Murphy spun around once the door made contact with the wall, slamming against painted bricks and chipping the white walls. The sound echoed over the floor, catching the attention of everyone else — including Clyde.

Yates was quick to intercept Tolkien before he got too close. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” He exclaimed, grabbing the frantic captain by his shoulders and attempting to push him back. “You kids aren’t supposed to be here! This is a crime scene!”

Tolkien struggled to escape the grip, eyes firmly set on his friend who looked three seconds away from breaking down. Craig and Kevin opted to stay back. Stan as well, the thought of being manhandled by an officer with a gun not on his bucket list for the day. 

“Are you fucking crazy?! He’s covered in blood, you’re just letting him stand there!” Tolkien shouted back, using as much strength as he could to try and get Yates off of him. 

Yates’ shoes squeaked on the floor while trying to contain Tolkien. “It’s– evidence! Everything in here is evidence! We cannot risk screwing it up!”

“I’ll shit on your fucking evidence! CLYDE!” Tolkien fired back, yelling to the boy over Yates’ shoulder. 

Stan could only sit back and watch. The numbness in his limbs still remained, lingering beneath his skin and brushing along his veins. He couldn’t bring himself to move if he tried. The look in Clyde’s eye was enough to send him spiraling out of fear. 

The brunette was utterly destroyed. Shudders wracked Clyde’s body each time he breathed, arms trembling while he was repeatedly scrutinized by a camera lens. Every flash of white light echoed in Stan’s head, no matter where he looked the light never went away. The photographer, who Stan discerned to be the medical examiner, continued circling the disheveled boy, prompting Clyde to turn a new direction each time. Stan didn’t know how much longer Clyde could take this. It was a miracle he wasn’t a sobbing mess already, though that was insensitive of Stan to think. 

“God– damn it, kid! Just back the hell off!” Yates lost control, heaving his arms forward and shoving Tolkien back into his friends. In hindsight, the captain could have sued him for assault, but Stan doubted that Tolkien was worried about himself right now. 

Tolkien stumbled over his feet, tripping from his balance being stolen from his grasp. He fell back against Craig and Kevin, who were quick to correct the fuming boy before they were dragged in the middle of something. 

“Do you really want to mess up the only chance we could have to catch whoever did this?!” Yates exclaimed, keeping his hands outstretched in case Tolkien were to lunge at him again. But Tolkien stilled after that, ceasing his desperate efforts all together. He locked eyes with the detective, brown meeting brown with gazes both trying to prove a point. 

Stan ignored the way his stomach bubbled with remembrance, after Yates’ words settled within him. He’d already been here before, at Stark’s Pond. Half of him twinged with the urge to speak up, try and convince Tolkien that messing with a crime scene wouldn’t help anything. But even with his jaw agape, the words died in his throat. Stan knew exactly what Tolkien was feeling — what they were all feeling. He knew because he felt it before, too. 

He hated how easily he could picture himself on the dock, standing in the rain with blood on his hands. He hated how easily the guilt rose in his chest, fueling the apprehension that followed the memory. Stan could regret his mistakes every day for the rest of his life, but nothing he could do would ever reverse them. He knew it was too late to ask for help, he knew it was too late to come clean – he’d have to live on knowing he could have helped catch Scott’s killer. Now Bebe’s too.

“We’re not leaving until we know Clyde’s okay!” Kevin spoke for all of them, including Stan, who still hadn’t moved from the door. 

Yates’ jaw fell open as he took in a breath, ready to spew out as many lectures as he could. “You–”

“The kid might need someone to help him clean up,” Murphy cut the detective off as he approached him from behind. Yates snapped his head to face him, scowling with rage. Murphy disregarded that. “He’s in shock. He’s really in no condition to be left alone.” 

“Thank you!” Tolkien agreed, projecting all the venom in his voice onto Yates. 

The ginger man glanced between each pair of eyes, meaning he was coming to terms with being outnumbered. Stan watched him sigh, shoulders sagging with defeat. 

“Fine.” He spat, a sour expression remaining still on his face. “One of you can stay. One.” 

Stan watched each of his friends exchange the same look, assessing one other to decide who would be best fit for the role. They could pretend like what happened to Bebe didn’t affect them as much as it should have, but Stan knew the truth. He could tell exactly what the twitch of Craig’s fingers meant, and the way Kevin gulped yet said nothing. He could tell what it meant when Tolkien’s eyes darted around the room, fists opening and closing just as Stan’s did before. 

They didn’t trust themselves. 

That much was obvious, Stan thought, because he wholeheartedly agreed. Clyde needed comforting, he needed someone to tell him that things were going to be okay. But who could fill that role when Stan and his friends couldn’t say the same for themselves? They’d lost not only one of their best friends, someone they talked and smiled with on a daily basis, but they’d lost two of them. In equally horrifying ways. There was no telling if things were ever going to be okay again. 

And the thought of having to face that, the thought of having to trudge back towards the library knowing what was waiting for him, made Stan sick. He could already hear the cries and whimpers of other traumatized students, people who deserved no part in this mess. If he ever tried to deny that all of this was his fault, he certainly couldn’t now. 

If Stan had said something about Scott’s truck, none of this would have happened. Hell, if he’d just tried a little harder that night, tried to think about others over himself. He was too busy deciphering the taste of Wendy’s chapstick to realize that that would be the last time Scott would ever wave to him again. He should have stayed. Made sure Scott got home. He should have fucking cared.

Stan’s mouth moved faster than his brain, forming words on his tongue that came out with a rasp. “I’ll stay.”

All heads whirled around to face him. And upon hearing the sound of his unused voice, vibrations rugged in his chest, Stan cleared his throat and said it again. 

“I’ll stay.” He repeated, nodding his head whilst glancing between his friends, silently asking permission. Although, he already knew their answer.

Tolkien’s expression softened. Craig’s fingers stopped twitching. Kevin finally released the deep breath that Stan knew he was holding. All signs of relief, and a little bit of regret. Stan found that mildly amusing, how desperate they were to comfort Clyde until the realization set in of what that entailed. But he didn’t blame them. Not this time. 

“Whatever. Murphy, take them back to the library. I need to wrap this up.” Yates said, walking off towards the medical examiner with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

As much as Yates’ attitude had irked Stan, starting from the day they met, he could tell that the man was simply just stressed. He wasn’t sure exactly what stuck out to him about Scott’s case, what initially brought him to South Park, but he was sure that Yates couldn’t have predicted this. The detective was just as shocked as the rest of them. Yates was just another walking example of pretending. Over the years, Stan learned to recognize things like that. 

“Come on, guys.” Murphy provided the boys with a sympathetic expression, acknowledging Stan while he ushered the other three back towards the door. 

“Stan—“ Tolkien called, pausing in the frame. There was that expression again, the captain’s eyebrows pinched together with vague regret. “Are you sure?”

Stan nodded again, wordlessly affirming Tolkien’s question. The other boy looked skeptical, maybe even a little worried. But he never got the chance to backtrack on his word — Murphy guided him through the door and back out into the hallway. 

Stan’s feet remained planted in the same spot, unyielding to the storm that awaited him. 

Kyle flinched as thunder cracked loudly through the sky, the sound muffled past the walls surrounding him yet still jarring nonetheless. He turned his eyes towards the wall of windows, portraying the outside world. It was dark and deadly, ominous storm clouds brewing all across the horizon. The display of dull colors made it feel much later than it was, as if Kyle were staring out his bedroom window in the middle of the night, watching the branches of evergreen trees sway back and forth by powerful winds. Raindrops pelted the glass and roof above him, falling in torrents by the second. 

Kyle found it ironic, really – how mother nature provided one of the worst storms of the season, on the same day he fell right in the middle of his own. The library, an undisturbed, peaceful environment, was now anything but. The more time passed, the worse the outcome of the pep rally seemed to be, as everyone who witnessed Bebe Stevens’ body drop from a banner finally began to realize that they hadn’t been dreaming. Kyle had heard it the moment the library doors closed – the sobs and cries of his schoolmates as they came to terms with what was happening. Being locked in a room wasn’t helping the response, and neither was the storm outside. Kyle felt like he was waiting for something else to happen, waiting for the other horrible shoe to drop, as if Bebe’s bloodied corpse wasn’t enough to instill fear in him. 

Kyle’s teeth subconsciously sunk into his bottom lip, folding one of his arms over his torso. In his other, he gripped his phone with an iron clasp against his ear, as the repetitive purring of a ringing line echoed through the speaker. He couldn’t decipher his thoughts, nor his emotions. He figured it was just shock, but it was different from the day he found out about Scott. He wasn’t falling to his knees dizzy and disoriented, he could still hear everything around him. He remembered the way his limbs froze when he laid eyes on Bebe’s corpse, and the way his jaw fell when it registered just what the hell he was looking at. But now? 

Kyle couldn’t… feel, anything. 

He’d already swiped his hand under his eyes, checking for tears, but as he pulled his fingers back, they came out dry. He’d checked his pulse on both his wrist and neck, even going as far as to hold his palm over his heart, making sure he wasn’t hyperventilating and couldn’t feel it. But his heart rate was normal. Maybe a few beats quicker than he would have liked, but he wasn’t struggling to breathe. 

Kyle had kept in mind what Kenny had told him, how people had their own ways of grieving, but how was it possible that he felt nothing? Sure, he was shocked in the gym, but while his classmates around him seemed to be getting worse, Kyle almost seemed completely fine. 

His first and foremost response was to call his parents, even though they couldn’t do anything to help. It wasn’t like his mother was at home, lounging on a chair while reading a book. It wasn’t like his father was just down the street, one call away in his office, no. For the first time in a long time, Kyle had no idea where his parents were. He didn’t know what country they were in, what part of the ocean they were swimming in, or even what timezone they were in. Hell, he didn’t know if they were even alive. He’d received absolutely zero word on their whereabouts, not since he saw them off when Stan’s dad came to bring them to the airport. He wasn’t sure what to expect when he called, he just hoped that they would answer – because he needed to hear their voices. 

Maybe Kyle’s mind was just taking longer to process what had happened. Maybe it would hit him later, at home or as he’s closing his eyes to sleep. Maybe the shock would come back, like how it did when Scott’s name appeared on the news. Kyle felt guilty for feeling normal. He didn’t know Bebe quite like others did, he only knew of her name and place on the cheer squad. But that wasn’t an excuse to not feel sad, right? Kyle needed to be upset. He needed to cry like others around him did, he needed a different response. 

Was this how other people felt when Scott died? People who weren’t close with him the way he was? Did they feel guilty for not having anything to say? 

Kyle thought them all, the same phrases he’d become sick of after Scott’s death circulated around the state. How horrible. Bebe deserved better. Her poor parents, Kyle hoped they were okay. 

It made him sick thinking he was behaving like the exact people he hated. He wanted them to be sad, he wanted them to be angry. He wanted them to fucking give a shit that his best friend was just murdered. But how could they, when all they knew about him was his name? His age? The color of his hair and eyes? Nobody but the people in Scott’s circle knew what he was really like. They weren’t aware of his heroic personality, or the fact that he was failing English – Kyle had tutored him multiple times, hearing the same excuse from the boy each time. 

‘I’m just not good with words, dude.’ 

He understood now. Maybe his revelation could have branched from a better experience, but he understood now, why people reacted the way they did. They just… didn’t know him. Just like Kyle didn’t know Bebe. Not really. 

“You’ve reached Sheila Broflovski! I can’t come to the phone right now—“ 

“Damn it.” Kyle mumbled under his breath, pulling his phone away from his ear. 

It was his third time trying to reach his mother, after trying his father’s cell four times previously. Neither of them were answering, all of Kyle’s calls went straight to voicemail. He didn’t understand. Did their phones die? Did they not have chargers on the ship? How come they hadn’t contacted him or Ike? And as soon as Kyle did, there was no answer? It didn’t make any sense. 

He scrolled through his contacts list, trying to decide if it was worth it to call anyone else. In reality, what could they do? The police enforced a lockdown, which meant that no one was getting in or out of the school. They were trapped here until the police decided what to do next. Which, considering the incompetence of the aforementioned department, could be hours from now. Kyle could be stuck in the library for hours. 

He stopped scrolling once his brother’s name popped up on the screen. He debated for a moment, hovering his thumb over Ike’s contact. Should he call him? Would it really help anyone to inform a seventh grader about Bebe? If the other adults listed in his contacts couldn’t help, what did Kyle think Ike could do? The kid didn’t even know how to tie his own shoelaces.

Frustrated and out of ideas on what to do, Kyle slid his phone back into his pocket. He breathed in deep through his nose, feeling the musty air of the library enter his lungs. The smell of old books and century-old grime was sour and unwelcoming. He had been standing in the non-fiction aisle, nothing but copies of textbooks his teachers used in class, and autobiographies of people Kyle could give less of a shit about right now. He began the trek back to where his friends were sitting, the table they’d claimed as soon as they saw one unoccupied. The walk wasn’t far, the table was only a few aisles away from where Kyle had excused himself. 

Another roll of thunder bellowed out into the dark sky, but this time Kyle didn’t even blink – not even as a flash of lightning followed suit. 

He could hear Kenny’s voice even before he rounded the corner of a bookshelf, his friends and their table coming into view. 

“You think a cop did it.” The blonde had asked, although his tone indicated something more of a statement. An observation. 

Cartman rolled his eyes, lifting his hands in a placating manner. He was seated across from Kenny, next to Tweek — whose hands were shaking like leaves. He wasn’t handling the situation very well, and with everything else going on, including the storm outside, Tweek’s anxiety was at an all time high. 

“Look. All I’m saying is that it’s strange how quickly they got here. What if they were waiting for a call like this? What if they already knew Bebe was dead?” Cartman theorized, much to Kenny’s distaste. 

Kyle silently took a seat next to Kenny, opting to stay away from Cartman’s side of the table. While he felt bad for Tweek, he wasn’t sure if he’d be the best at calming him down. That was usually Butters’ job, but the aforementioned boy was nose deep in a book to Kyle’s right, probably trying to distract himself long enough to settle his fear. 

“Okay, smartass, how the fuck would that work? They’re cops, they don’t exactly have a ton of free time, let alone time to orchestrate two brutal killings.” Kenny said, challenging Cartman to back up his case. 

Kenny acknowledged Kyle’s presence with a glance, but stayed committed to his and Cartman’s conversation. Kyle kept to himself. He didn’t necessarily care about interrupting, it was the fact that he just didn’t want to talk. He felt like staying silent was a good way to respond. 

Cartman folded his arms over the table, leaning forward. “In this shithole town? Free time is practically all those douchebags have! And no one would ever suspect a dirty cop, that’s why it’s perfect!” 

“You’re too close to this by a mile, dude! Our cops may be lazy but no way any of them are capable of something like this! This is… I mean, i-it’s fucking inhumane!” 

“And since when were serial killers ever branded a part of our species?” Cartman asked. “They call them monsters for a reason, Kinny.”

“Yeah, on television. In case you haven’t noticed, fatass, this is real life! People are dead!” 

Cartman slammed his palm on the surface of the table, startling Tweek and Butters. He pointed his index finger at Kenny. “People are dead because that shithead detective can’t tell his ass from his elbow! It’s been over a week since Scott died and he hasn’t found shit! What the hell could be more important than solving a murder?!”

The moment Yates was brought up, Kyle felt his shoulders stiffen. Amidst all the tragic chaos, he couldn’t forget how he kept Scott’s calls a secret. His hand clenched around the shape of his phone through his sweatpants, unwillingly thrown back into one of his worst memories. A chill curled around his arms and neck, sending goosebumps down his skin. 

Kyle should have blocked the number. He shouldn’t have answered the phone after he knew Scott was dead. Why the fuck did he answer in the first place? Why did he put himself in such a situation that would only follow with bad consequences? Here he was, sitting in his school’s library because one of his classmates’ bodies just fell at someone’s feet. Maybe if Kyle had come clean to the police, that wouldn’t have happened. 

Shit, this was his fault, wasn’t it?

He could feel the symptoms of his panic attack return. Kyle’s chest swelled with guilt for what felt like the tenth time that week. Was he just overthinking? Would telling Yates about the calls really have changed anything? Tracing a cell signal was possible, that would have probably been the first thing they tried. But what if whoever had Scott’s phone already ditched it? Kyle had only talked to the stranger twice — the second time being much more terrifying than only hearing breathing. He remembered their words so clearly, yet he never figured out what they meant.

‘It means I’m going to stop it.’

Kyle knew by now that the stranger and Scott’s killer were one in the same person. The killer, who had just claimed a second victim. The dots were so easy to connect, a blind man could see what was going on. Scott had been stabbed fourteen times and strung up between two trees, on display for anyone to find him. In their case, it was their assistant principal at school. Kyle wasn’t exactly sure how Bebe was killed, he only saw the aftermath. He could only guess. Her body was too bloody and bruised to distinguish the cause of death, but stab wounds weren’t out of the question. It was clear that whoever killed her had experience, and a sick, twisted desire to brutally present their work — as first demonstrated with Scott. 

The possibility was at the front of his mind, but Kyle couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it. Deep down he knew the truth, he knew the kinds of dangers this town was rapidly heading towards — but he also knew that if he said it out loud, it would become real. He didn’t want it to be real. 

“I’m just confused as to why he thinks it’s a good idea to issue a lockdown instead of evacuating the school.” Kenny said, after mulling over Cartman’s words. 

“You know, for once I actually agree with you, Kinny. We should be in our homes, not locked up like animals and left to guess on what the hell’s happening.” Cartman added. 

“We know what’s happening, fatass! Somebody killed Bebe!” Kenny threw his arms up, gesturing to the exit doors of the library.

“And— ack!! — r-rolled her body up in a banner!” Tweek chimed in, trembling with fear. It was the first time he spoke in the last half hour they’d been trapped here. 

“Like some sick final act of a play.” Kenny muttered, shaking his head with horror spanning his features. 

Kyle craned his neck to the side, glancing between the tear-streaked faces of his schoolmates. This wasn’t a drill that required him to stack desks against a classroom door, this lockdown was real — and everyone was aware of it. Including Yates, who, Cartman was right — decided that piling students inside a library was better than sending them home, with their families. Yates was not a very complex character, Kyle could tell even by only talking with him once. He was vigilant. Determined. The kinds of questions he’d asked Kyle in his interrogation proved that. It didn’t matter if they were too far out of the ballpark, they were ruling out every possible angle. Sifting through variables of a puzzle. Kyle knew that now. Yates must have had good reasoning for his choice. 

“They think it's one of us,” Kyle blurted out, gaining the attention of all four of his friends. 

Kenny turned to him. “A student?”

“Well—“ Kyle began, gulping down a knot in his throat. He wasn’t even sure where he was going with this theory, he just knew it made sense. “It had to be someone who had access to the school. How else would they.. do… all that?”

He sat up straighter, looking between his friends. 

“Everyone saw Bebe yesterday, even I did. Someone would have had to kill her and stage her body before the pep rally. And getting through a locked set of doors without keys is kind of difficult.” 

Cartman snapped his fingers. “The janitor.”

“Shut up, Cartman.” Kenny scrunched his face up with disapproval. 

“No, I’m serious!” Cartman defended, raising his voice. “The janitor has keys to every room in this entire school! He could have easily snuck into the gym and tampered with the banner!”

“What motive would a high school janitor have to kill a random girl?” Kyle chimed in, siding with Kenny and refusing to buy into Cartman’s speculations. 

Cartman shrugged both of his shoulders. “..Maybe they were having an affair! I don’t know! It’s a working theory!”

Kyle felt his blood begin to boil. He hated when Cartman argued, he always pulled random shit from his ass thinking it would work in his favor. It never did. It was like yelling at a bag of rocks. 

“It’s a stupid ass theory, and you should shut the fuck up because you have no idea what you’re talking about!” Kyle scolded, pointing an accusing finger towards the brunette. He was tired of Cartman thinking he was smart. 

Butters finally placed his book down on the table, keeping his palm in between the pages as a bookmark. “If it wasn’t the janitor, who coulda’ done it then?” 

Silence befell upon the table, as each seated member began to think of names in their heads. Kyle couldn’t even begin to come up with a suspect, he never thought he’d ever have to. 

South Park was a small town, a small town with almost no crime. Kyle grew up learning about stranger danger and what to do in an emergency, but he never actually had to use that knowledge before. In South Park, residents were trusted. They left their doors unlocked at night, confident that nothing would go wrong. They left spare keys in their vehicles, overshared personal information – they were careless, because nothing in this town ever gave them a reason not to be. Kyle’s parents had still been strict, as were most parents of kids his age, but no matter how many things they warned him about – getting kidnapped, killed, robbed – Kyle knew the chances of any of those things happening were extremely low. The reason why the police were so inattentive was because nothing ever went on in this town. Kyle had heard about false alarm operator calls, where clanging noises outside turned out to be raccoons digging through trash cans. But nothing worse ever happened. Not like this.

Kyle didn’t even know who to start with, let alone try and gauge who had motive. There were too many people to consider. Too many possibilities. He only knew his friends, no one else in the room. Kyle could try and match faces to a few names, but he wouldn’t know them. Not really. The suspect pool was too large for him to single anyone out. He was stumped.

Then, Kenny turned to him again, a spark of enlightenment in his eyes. “Kyle, didn’t David lie about being new here?”

When he heard the name, Kyle jerked his head towards Kenny. David.

He had forgotten all about him, which was funny, considering how hard it was to get the charming boy out of his mind just a few days earlier. But that was before Scott’s funeral. That was before Kyle discovered almost everything David had said about himself was a lie. He felt betrayed, and quite frankly a little foolish. He was so enthralled with the idea of someone approaching him with romantic intentions, he was blindsided by delusion. He felt… manipulated. Which if that was David’s end goal, the guy was pretty damn good at it. 

He hadn’t seen David since the funeral, not even in the hallways at school. He guessed that that was expected, since there would be no way for them to know each other’s schedules. The chances of them running into each other again were as average as any. And Kyle wasn’t really opposed to the idea of never seeing him again. 

“Kenny, what the fuck?” Kyle whisper-yelled, ignoring the puzzled looks on his other friends’ faces. Because, Kenny was the only person Kyle told about what happened at the funeral. Kenny was the only person who knew David was a liar. He purposely left the others out, especially Cartman, because the boy would only rip on him for crushing on a potential murderer. 

David. David could be a suspect. 

“Wait, what the hell are you dipshits talking about? Who’s David?” Cartman demanded, furiously glancing between Kyle and Kenny.

“Jesus Christ—” Kyle’s eyelids fluttered closed with an irritated blink. “David’s the one who came up to me in the library a few days ago, remember? He said it was his first day but I found out at the funeral that he’s been going to school for over a week.” 

“What?!” Tweek exclaimed, eyes blowing wide with shock. “W-Why would he lie about that?!” 

“I didn’t really give him a chance to explain, Tweek, I was too busy feeling betrayed!” Kyle snapped in return, causing the boy across from him to flinch. Immediate regret pierced his stomach. He sighed. “…Sorry. I’m just— freaked out.”

Cartman scoffed, a butchered noise of air and a humorless laugh. “We all are, Kahl, you’re not special. How come of all people you had to befriend a murderer?” 

Kyle welcomed a pang of anger, feeling the embers of a raging fire burn beneath his chest. He sprung up out of his seat. “Fuck off, Cartman, how the hell was I supposed to know he was lying?!”

“I don’t know, maybe stop thinking with your dick for two seconds?!” Cartman fired back, kicking his chair out of the way and standing up to match Kyle’s level. 

Butters flinched at the tone of their volume, glancing nervously around their table – probably worried about attracting more attention. “Um, Eric… maybe you should… tone it down?”

“And let my guard down so Kyle’s serial killer boyfriend can gut me next? No thanks!” Cartman barked, before maneuvering around to the front of the table. “Screw you guys, I’m going home where it’s safe!”

Cartman gave Kyle and his friends basically no time to voice their opinions on his actions, turning around and storming off towards the front of the library. He surely wouldn’t get far, not by badgering a police officer with an invalid argument. 

“Yeah, good luck with that, asshole!” Kyle yelled out anyway, not caring if Cartman couldn’t hear him. A few glances were spared his way, from classmates who were unlucky enough to overhear their conversation, but nothing more was said. Kyle plopped back down into his seat, his arms crossed tightly with fury plastered over his face. He didn’t want to be upset, he had no right to be upset with all that was going on. His and Cartman’s rivalry was entirely insignificant right now. 

Kenny leaned over to him, regret shining in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ky– I thought you would have told them already.”

Kyle turned to him. “No. I didn’t tell them because I knew how Cartman would react. He never helps anything, just blows it way out of proportion. It didn’t really feel like getting berated for something I couldn’t control.” 

Kenny pressed his lips into a thin line, his take on a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

Kyle released a sigh from his lungs, feeling the anger inside him gradually simmer away. He had no choice but to calm down, if he didn’t he would be no better than Cartman. 

“It’s fine.” Kyle admitted, lowly. “I guess I would’ve had to address it sooner or later. It was really weird of him to lie about something like that.”

Kenny blinked. “Do you think he could have done it?”

“Maybe, I– Kenny, I have no idea.” Kyle lolled his head back against the seat. “...It’s hard for me to even believe that any of this is really happening.” 

The thought popped into Kyle’s mind again, the same one he had been pushing away for the last week. He’d said it before, out loud, even had Kenny as a witness. But with Bebe being dead, with two victims gone under the same act of violence, it was terrifying how much it made sense. It was terrifying how quickly Kyle was starting to realize it. 

“I know, dude. Me too. It’s like–”

“I swear to god if you say ‘a horror movie’ I will punch you in the throat,” Kyle threatened, cutting Kenny off without moving his head. 

That prompted a huff from the blonde, followed by a beat of momentary silence. Kyle didn’t have long to bask in it before Kenny spoke again. 

“Hey, um.. have you gotten any more calls?”

It didn’t matter how much Kenny’s words lacked context, Kyle knew immediately what he was talking about – because like the incident with David, Kenny was the only person Kyle told about the calls from Scott’s number. He glanced at Tweek, who had been pulling on a string coming loose from his shirt sleeve, occupied in his own world. Butters had picked up his book again, too busy gliding his eyes over the pages to listen in on their words. 

“No, I haven’t heard a thing.” Kyle whispered to Kenny. “The last time they talked to me was the night of Tolkien’s party.”

“That’s so fucking creepy,” Kenny commented. “And Yates knows, right—“

“Yes,” Kyle answered, a little too quickly. He hated when Kenny brought that up, because Kyle hated lying to him. But if he came clean now then Kenny would indefinitely be upset with him. He couldn’t afford that. Not today. Not after everything that’s happened. “Detective Yates knows. It was the first thing I told him.” 

“Okay, okay. I was just making sure,” Kenny said, raising his hands in mock surrender. When he lowered them again, he did it slowly. “But… do you think they’ll call again? The stranger?” 

Kyle thought about it for a moment. “...I don’t know. I don’t want them to, but— at the same time, I— I want an explanation. I want to know what they meant.” 

It was the truth. The stranger’s words had haunted him ever since that night, it was even worse when Kyle was given zero clarification. The stranger had said that they were someone who knew what went on behind closed doors. But what did that fucking mean? As far as Kyle knew, he wasn’t harboring some dark secret that could get him arrested – well, unless they were deliberately trying to frame him with proof that he was in contact with the victim. But that was something Kyle could have taken care of himself. He could have blocked and deleted the number. He still could. How would that benefit them?

“Well, if they find out that you talked to cops I don’t think that’s gonna be a possibility.” Kenny brought up a good point. 

Kyle finally lifted his head. “But.. how would that even happen? It’s not like Yates is going public with the fact that I talked to a murderer. You, me and him are the only ones that know.”

Kyle tried to ignore how easily the lie fell off his tongue. He didn’t have any more excuses left to make himself believe that lying would solve something. He was just being selfish. He would rather have Kenny think that he listened to his advice rather than admitting the opposite. 

Cartman’s cop theory rolled back into his mind. Kyle had very high doubts that Yates was behind it, because his life was already too messy to take on the role of a killer. And if what Kenny was saying was true, if the stranger wasn’t contacting Kyle because he believed he’d gone to the cops about it, that would entail something entirely different. Something much worse.

The stranger had been stalking him at Tolkien’s party, Kyle knew that for a fact. But who was there to say that the stranger ever stopped? They wouldn’t have been able to tell if Kyle came clean about the calls, just that he’d spoken to Yates. It would have been smart for the stranger to assume that they’d been compromised. Safe. Why would they risk blowing their cover by harassing someone who had a detective on speed dial?

Kyle felt his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t necessarily explain it, or provide evidence to help himself believe it further – but this felt like a win. Kyle felt like he was ahead of the stranger somehow. Like he knew something they didn’t, which wasn’t very far from the truth. He could use this. He wasn’t sure how, but this was leverage, he could find a way to use it against them.

Kenny shook his head slowly, Kyle could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes. “I don’t know, dude. But– but maybe we should reconsider that–” 

Kenny cut his own sentence short, his eyes darting up towards something behind Kyle. Now confused, the redhead furrowed his brows before turning, craning his neck again to try and find what he was looking at. 

“Uh… hi,” David offered a small wave in greeting, followed by a sheepish smile. He locked eyes with Kyle, a familiar stare.

It only took about a second of realization before Kenny was jolting upwards, his chair tipping back against a bookshelf and knocking over a few textbooks. Butters and Tweek startled at the noise, lifting their eyes to see what was happening. 

“No, immediately no,” Kenny pointed at the taller boy, who was now hastily backing up as Kenny advanced on him. “You stay the hell away from him.”

“Kenny–” Kyle started, but gave up knowing he likely wouldn’t be able to convince Kenny to back down. The blonde’s protectiveness paired with everything that was happening meant that drastic measures would be taken when his friends were at risk. It wasn’t that Kyle didn’t want David to see what he did wrong, but if Kenny started a fight it would only instigate more chaos. Chaos that they certainly did not need. 

David stopped when his back collided with another bookshelf. He had nowhere else to go if Kenny decided to throw a punch. “Please, I– I just want to talk. To Kyle. I-I want to apologize.”

“You must be on the fucking moon if you genuinely think I’m going to let you near him again.” Kenny snarled, curling his hand into a fist. Kyle took that as a sign to really step in.

“Kenny, it’s okay.” He assured the fuming boy, placing one of his hands on Kenny’s shoulder. The blonde only looked down at him in return, incredulous shock dominating his features.

“Kyle,” He warned, knowingly. Kenny gestured towards David. “He could be–”

“I know.” Kyle gritted his teeth, before grabbing a hold of Kenny’s bicep. He spared David a quick glance, dragging Kenny back towards their table. He waited to make sure David was out of earshot, lowering his voice. “If he is behind this, he won’t get away with anything in a room full of people.”

“He’s still dangerous, Kyle. He lied about how long he’s been here, who’s to say he isn’t lying about anything else? Like if he’s got a knife tucked in his back pocket?” 

“Oh, now you’re just reaching.” Kyle folded his arms to signify how annoyed he was. “If we’re trying to rule people out, don’t you think we should give them a chance to prove their innocence?” 

“Are you serious? Like two seconds ago you told Tweek how betrayed you felt because of him! Now you’re defending him?” 

“I’m not saying I’m not still mad at him, Kenny, I’m saying we should give him a chance to tell the truth! We can’t start suspecting people if we don’t have the full story!” 

Kenny closed his mouth, tightening his jaw to portray his disapproval. He shifted his gaze towards David, who was standing timidly in the same place they left him, probably unsure of what to do while Kyle talked Kenny out of knocking his lights out. 

“Fine.” Kenny turned back to face Kyle, eyes stone serious when they burned into green. “But if he tries anything, I’ll—“

“—Kick his ass into next semester. Yes, dude, I am well aware.” Kyle finished for him, uninterested in hearing all the different ways his friend could inflict violence on others. It really wasn’t soft on the ears. 

Kyle dropped his arms back down to his sides as he approached David, quickly losing confidence once the memories came flooding back. If they were right about him, then David had certainly faked their connection when they first met. Gave Kyle false hope that he could have something he never had before. It was cruel. Inhumane. Serial killer behavior.

Kyle slowed his legs to a stop and stood in front of David, trying his best to mask a deep breath that was much needed. “Hi.”

“..Hi.” David replied, eyebrows upturned with hesitance. “Um… is.. your friend..?”

“Don’t worry about him.” Kyle answered curtly, side-eyeing Kenny who was in the process of fixing all the books he’d knocked over. “You said you wanted to talk?”

“Yes. Yes!” David seemed to rejuvenate with newfound purpose. “I was hoping we could talk somewhere private. Less, uh…" His gaze drifted to Kenny again. "...guarded?” 

Kyle could feel David’s fear radiate off of him like a beacon. He could only imagine the kind of death stare Kenny was giving him behind Kyle’s back.

“Yeah. Sure.” He agreed, promising himself that he wouldn’t be so naive the second time around. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, if David planned on lying to him more so than he already was, but whatever followed as David took Kyle’s hand in his own, leading him around a bookshelf and down a few aisles — 

He could handle himself. 

Stan had stayed off to the side of the gym, waiting for the medical examiner to finish taking pictures of the scene. It was one flash of light after the other. He couldn’t even bring himself to keep blinking after the third, it didn’t matter where he saw it – the light was still haunting all the same. It blurred even the abyss under his eyelids, following him into every corner he tried to hide. 

The decor from the pep rally was still displayed, shining brightly whenever the light reflected itself off the surface of confetti. The balloon arch in the middle of the room was splattered with red, dripping down the sides and spreading along the floor. The banner that Bebe fell from still hung proudly above the ground, swaying back and forth as if mocking the occupants of its space. The hand-drawn letters weren’t even readable anymore, black marker bled with green and streaked down the paper, like someone had left it out in the rain. The blood only made it worse, completely coating the top half and still actively trickling towards the pool below. 

Stan could hear a pin drop, with how silent it was — stillness coiled and shaped the room into something he couldn’t recognize anymore. It had been years since he actually enjoyed attending and participating in rallies, the memories from earlier years of high school were better than ones recent. But now those memories were tainted with something sinister, a permanent mark of tragedy. Stan didn’t think his life could get any worse, he didn’t think the universe had any more curveballs to throw. But time and time again he was proven to be wrong. All that was left for him to do was wonder which part of hell he’d be cast into next. 

When the medical examiner was done, Stan was finally prompted to move again. His legs felt stiff and prickly with a numbness familiar to him, walking towards Clyde with cautious and calculated steps. He was afraid to even breathe, afraid that one wrong move would send Clyde into a frenzy. The last thing he wanted to see was one of his best friends tank with dejection. But Clyde moved on his own, expression stoic and unreadable. Stan reached a shaking hand out towards him as Clyde trudged past him, but quickly recoiled when he realized he would have been touching Bebe’s blood. Stan cradled that same hand to his chest as if his skin had been burned. He watched Clyde make his way towards the gym doors, only snapping out of his daze when he remembered what was at stake. Their sanity, and their stability. If he didn’t play this role the way it was intended, neither him nor Clyde would be leaving this school with a full bar of functionality. 

So many thoughts were rumbling around in Stan’s brain, like an avalanche of snow had collapsed, rolling waves of white mist cascading down the mountain of his mind. The locker room had been quickly and easily fogged with warm mist from the shower, Stan could hear Clyde’s quiet cries from behind the wall as he scraped every ounce of red tethered to his skin. It was a sorrowful sound, one that pinched his chest with thriving pity. 

He waited, unable to do anything but. Stan watched his vision distort as he stared blankly at a single spot in the room. He could hear the soft patter of raindrops on the roof above him, but it was easily drowned out under the noise of running water. He leaned against the wall closest to the showers, a promise to Clyde that he would be there if he needed him. Of course, Stan was silently hoping that Clyde wouldn’t ask — he wasn’t so confident in his ability to express condolences. 

Stan knocked his head back against the wall, exhaustively. The tile was cold against his scalp, despite the steam gathering around him. He let his eyelids close, momentarily providing a sense of peace. The images of light collected by the camera flash were gone, finally allowing him a chance to think. Clyde’s crying only amplified his guilt, a sickening feeling stationary in his gut. He wished he could apologize. Take back all the shit he’d pulled to wind him and his friends up in this position. Scott was dead, Bebe was dead – there was a serial killer running around South Park, and there was no telling what was coming around the corner. 

Stan couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe how much he’d ruined his life before the age of adulthood. How could he ever come back from this? Would redemption even be an option after this? After he’d basically led two of his closest friends to their deaths? Helped cover up a murder?

The words were stinging his tongue like dry ice, begging to be let out. They were the same words his father had repeated to him on a weekly basis, words Stan had engraved onto his soul. They haunted him in his dreams, even during the day. There would never be an option for escape, not when he’d already proven his father right. Randy was always right, he was right about everything. 

“You’re so stupid.”

“...What?” Clyde’s distant and sobbing voice suddenly called out from around the wall. Stan couldn’t hear the shower running anymore. He instantly picked his head up, snapping open his eyelids and seeing stars. He panicked, trying to think of how to cover up his previous words. 

“Uh– “ Stan gulped. “Are you okay in there?” 

His attention turned when the sound of a shower curtain being pulled back filled his ears. Clyde stepped out, a dark green towel wrapped around his waist. Stan tried not to look, he tried to hold eye contact, but the way Clyde’s skin still looked red was crushing him. He could see clear marks caused by fingernails running up and down Clyde’s arms, his chest, even his neck – vivid and red and angry. He had scratched his skin raw, just like Stan did. 

“...No.” Clyde choked out, and Stan couldn’t tell the difference between water and tears that fell down his cheeks. “No, i-it just… it feels like this awful fucking nightmare. It doesn’t feel real.” 

Stan felt selfish for thinking about himself. It was so painfully obvious how much Clyde had it worse, yet here he was – still too self absorbed to see what was right in front of him. How if Clyde knew the truth about what Stan did, he wouldn’t be looking at him with tears in his eyes. He would tell him that he was no different from a monster. 

“Christ, Clyde, I…” Stan trailed off, mouth agape and head shaking with disbelief. His mind ran completely blank, unable to form a coherent thought. “…I don’t know what to say.” 

Clyde made a noise at that, something between a snort and a scoff. 

“I know.” He croaked, his voice ladened with despair. “No one does.” 

Stan pushed himself off the wall to appear more put together than he actually was. It was pathetic, trying to put up a front of strength when he didn’t even know what strength meant anymore. Clyde studied the room around them, scanning the empty benches for something Stan wasn’t sure of. 

“…Where are my clothes?” He asked, gripping the towel tighter around his waist. 

Stan rubbed the back of his neck, nervously. “Uh— well, they kind of.. took them. For.. evidence.” 

“Of course. My lucky fucking jacket.” Clyde huffed through his nose, a humorless noise. “Do they want me to wander the halls naked, or what?” 

On a different day, on a better day, Stan would have chuckled at a comment like that from Clyde. Instead, he offered a mixed look – one of forced sympathy and care. He knew that if he were in Clyde’s shoes, sympathy was the last thing he would want. But he didn’t know how else to approach it. It was his first instinct, as it should have been, and Stan wasn’t even good at it. 

“I could– find you something. From lost and found?” He offered, finally coming up with a somewhat reasonable solution. He didn’t have anything else to give, it was stupid of him to think that he could help Clyde. 

The linebacker’s shoulders heaved with a long sigh that silently left his lungs. He looked around the room again, as if assessing his other options before having to resort to Stan’s. And Clyde must have realized his defeat, if the way he nodded his head was anything to go by. 

“Okay. Uh–” Stan patted his pocket to make sure he still had his phone. He wasn’t sure where it would have gone if he didn’t, but it felt good to reassure himself that it was still there. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in five.” 

He didn’t give Clyde much time for a last word, he was already halfway out the locker room door before the time came. 

Stan wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to be out in the hallways without a police escort. He couldn’t test it before, since there were cops all over the place when he and Clyde had initially left the gym. But now, as Stan rounded the corner and stepped out into the lobby of the school, the halls were deserted. He could hear the thudding of his sneakers as he trekked along the floor, diagonally crossing the room to reach another hallway. Stan knew the layout of South Park high like the pattern of veins on his wrist. It had taken him a while to get used to where he was going, freshman year orientation was nothing short of a natural disaster. But as he grew up, as he discovered different meeting spots for girls who were way too mature for him, Stan slowly began to recognize his way around. It came in handy now, because he knew exactly where he was going. 

Last semester, a sophomore kid threw up on Stan’s favorite shirt in the cafeteria. The only other item of clothing he could have worn was his varsity jacket, unfortunately not enough to properly act as a shirt. So, Nurse Gollum had directed him to the lost and found bin — where discarded clothing lay in wait for students to pick up and claim. He wasn’t proud of it, in fact even when it was nearly 90° outside under the blazing sun, Stan still opted to wear his jacket over top — to cover the atrocious gradient colors of a shirt that was not his. 

It wasn’t all bad clothing that ended up in the bin, it was only the bad clothing that stayed there. All the relatively good-looking shirts and pants were always claimed early on. And usually, Stan could give less of a shit, he only needed a free shirt once, and it wasn’t even a requirement for him to keep it. He’d thrown it out as soon as he got home. But, for Clyde’s sake, Stan hoped that there was at least something that wouldn’t make the brunette’s knees buckle with embarrassment. He had already been traumatized, for fuck’s sake his eyes were bloodshot the last time Stan looked into them. He didn’t need to look like he stepped out of a circus when he’d already been drenched head to toe in his girlfriend’s blood. 

Stan turned left down a brand new hallway, the junior math wing. He tried not to stare at the classroom numbers he remembered looking at every day, memories weren’t important – especially ones from his junior year. Granted, that was the year he met Wendy, but she wasn’t the priority right now. 

Stan only made it three extra steps before a jarring noise caught his attention. And when the tune of his ringtone settled within his ears, he froze. He glanced in both directions either ahead of him or behind him, ensuring that he was in fact alone. He didn’t bother to try and listen for nearby footsteps, he wouldn’t be able to hear them over his phone. But the hallway was still empty, desolate and void of life. Stan prayed, as he slid his hand into his pocket to grab his phone, shakily pulling it out from between the fabric. In the back of his mind, he already knew who it was. 

Only, when his eyes focused on the name displayed over his screen — it wasn’t Scott’s. Stan felt fear grip him by the chest, as all the blood in his veins turned to ice. Bebe Stevens. Someone was calling him from Bebe’s phone. Stan’s limbs tightened with a feeling he only knew when it was just him and his father. The kind of raw and organic fear that horror movies could only dream of portraying. Without giving it a second thought, Stan swiped his thumb across the screen and pressed his phone to his ear. 

There was silence, only at first. Enough time for Stan to say ‘hello’. He didn’t, he knew better than to play into this psycho’s sick game. 

“…Are you enjoying the show?” A familiar, deep voice reverberated through the speaker. 

“...You. You, you’re–” Stan stopped himself short, glancing behind him again. He was still alone. “You put Scott’s truck in my driveway, didn’t you?” 

There was a laugh on the other end of the line, dark and taunting – twisting around Stan’s mind. The voice coiled itself across the back of his neck, prompting a cold shiver to snake down his spine. He clutched the phone tighter against his ear. 

“Your actions have consequences.” The voice whispered. “…Do you get it now? …Partner?” 

Stan felt his eyebrows knit together with confusion. He shook his head. “…Partner, what— what the fuck are you talking about?! Did– did you kill Bebe?! Who is this?!” 

“I’m the one who’s going to fix things around here!” The voice screamed in reply, causing Stan to flinch. “…And when I’m finished, Stanley Marsh, there will be no one left to help you pick up the pieces.” 

Stan’s chest rose and fell with speeds he had trouble deciphering. He was too focused on the words flooding their way into his ears to regulate his breathing. 

“I can’t wait to watch your life crumble at your feet.” 

The quarterback sucked in a breath of air, a thousand more questions threatening to fall off his tongue. But the chance for them to ever see the light of day never came, as the stranger on the other line promptly ended the call. And once again, 

Stan was plunged into silence.

Chapter Text

Kyle felt a shiver run down his body, feeling cold from just watching the storm unfold through the library windows. Ashen colored clouds tore through the horizon, the sun long hidden underneath. The rain didn’t let up. Kyle didn’t think it ever would, at least not today. It pounded against the roof of the school with inconceivable force, hailing on the windows nearly hard enough to break the glass. Of course, that wasn’t possible, but it sure felt like it. The winds were just as bad, shaking the trees and ripping leaves off branches with no restraint. It was like watching the world collapse on itself, everything around Kyle was going to shit. 

He could only imagine how Stark’s Pond looked in the storm. He wondered if the rain had power enough to wash away all the remnants of Scott’s blood, however much was left after the paramedics cut his body down from the trees. He wondered if the lake had already flooded the beach, or if the storm would show mercy. Kyle wasn’t expecting much in that regard, not when the parking lot outside already began to form its own rivers. He could see it as he walked, past the paned glass windows overlooking each car, drenched with rain.

The atmosphere inside the library had not changed. If anything, as David led Kyle through a maze of bookshelves, it seemed like things were only getting worse. No one was given word on what was going on since they were first directed into the room. No one was given updates on when it would be safe to leave again. People were stressed, that much was obvious, Kyle felt the awkwardness creep onto him as he passed by several crying students. He kept his words of affirmation to himself, he wouldn’t go spreading false information and have it come back to bite him. He wouldn’t tell people that things were going to be okay, because they probably wouldn’t be. 

Kyle wasn’t sure how he expected his day to go, but every single possibility in his mind would never have even come close to this. He figured that someday soon he’d have to confront David, but he didn’t expect to have to do it while under a school lockdown. Things were tense, and scary, and Kyle knew much more than he was letting on. But that was between him and Kenny. And whoever had been calling him. 

He didn’t want to plague his mind with Scott Malkinson’s killer, nor did he want to try and connect his murder to Bebe’s — as much as that seemed like the only possible angle. There were plenty of theories floating around town, but nothing was clear. Nothing was concrete. He had to remember that, even if he felt like he had it figured out. The only kind of evidence Kyle had was his own call history. And the memory of that spine-chilling voice. 

He was too lost in his thoughts to realize that David had stopped moving, that he found somewhere to hold their long-awaited reflection. Kyle nearly bumped into him, stumbling over the carpet before coming to a stop. 

David turned around, pressing his back into the end of a bookshelf, the wall of windows to Kyle’s left. “Is here okay?”

Kyle studied the area, folding both of his arms across his chest. It wasn’t meant to be an irritated gesture, not until his eyes fixated on the shelf next to David. It was a sign, attached to the wood made to label different genres. 

Kyle scoffed, face contorting with wariness. “The romance section? Seriously?”

David faltered, eyebrows pinching together with perplexity, as he scrambled to try and find what Kyle was looking at. And when he did, Kyle could see the taller boy’s face flush pink.

“Okay, that— that was an accident,” David promised, gesturing to the sign with his finger. 

“An accident,” Kyle huffed. “Just like you accidentally lied about how long you’ve been in South Park? You realize how suspicious that is, right?”

He watched David’s shoulders slump with defeat, a near silent sigh escaping his lungs. He tried not to flinch as a crack of thunder rolled through the sky, the sound loud enough to shake the building. It could be heard clear as day even over the rain, Kyle could feel it reverberate through his bones, rattling beneath his skin as the trees outside did the same. 

He was getting impatient. He would much rather be with his friends. He didn’t owe David anything, not even something as simple as his attention. Not after he’d already broken his trust. Something that, unfortunately, Kyle was familiar with. He knew the feeling of being betrayed better than anyone, in his opinion, and he was sick of it. He was sick of people taking advantage of his feelings. Who was there to say David wouldn’t try it again? It would be stupid, considering how cautious Kyle already had to be around him. And with the threat of something greater at large, his intuitions were louder than ever. David wouldn’t get away with it. 

Kyle thought about how he could have done it, if David really was behind this. How he could have looked into Scott’s eyes before killing him, or what kinds of things he’d been thinking when he murdered Bebe. Did David have second thoughts? Did he regret anything? Did he feel remorse when he approached Kyle that day? Maybe. Maybe not. If David was sick enough to kill two people, he probably wasn’t even capable of feeling remorse. 

Kyle considered every thought that rolled into his mind, every new theory and possibility surrounding David’s broken alibi. He knew that David brought him here to apologize, potentially explain just why that is, but Kyle couldn’t come up with anything to justify it. What could possibly be the reason why David felt like lying was better than the truth? He obviously had something to hide, but how bad could that something be? Kyle wanted to give him a chance to prove his innocence, like he’d told Kenny, which was the only reason why he was still standing here. But what if David tried lying again? What if he came clean about him being the one behind the murders? What if he threatened Kyle to keep quiet? 

No. Kyle couldn’t go there. His mind was treading into dangerous territory, and now wasn’t the time for that. David had no choice but to be genuine, if he wanted to get back on Kyle’s good side. 

And the redhead was through with waiting. He disregarded David’s solemn expression, grinding his teeth together with newfound urgency. 

“You have three seconds to tell me the truth before I walk away.” He threatened. 

David perked up, eyes widening with mild panic. His jaw fell open, wordlessly balking while trying to think of something to say. Three seconds had gone and passed, and Kyle heard nothing. He rolled his eyes, partially for dramatic effect, turning and taking a few steps forward. It was then when David reached out, settling a hand over his bicep to stop him.

“Okay!” He caved, retracting his arm once Kyle looked back at him. “Okay, I’ll… I’ll tell you.” 

Kyle relaxed against a bookshelf opposite to the taller boy, keeping his arms tucked under one another. David sighed again, almost dejectedly, which was a good sign. Metaphorically, the boy was cornered. He only really had one choice, to tell the truth, less he be accused of murder. 

“First off… I just want to say that I am sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you, it just… it was instinct.” David said, keeping his voice low. 

“Instinct?” Kyle reiterated, shaking his head questionably. 

David nodded, slowly. “I’ve had to do it so many times it just became routine.” He continued, reeling Kyle in with curiosity. “I-I know that sounds bad, and trust me– I wish that weren’t the case. But you aren’t the first person in this town I’ve lied to, Kyle.” 

At that, the redhead’s heart skipped a beat. He strained his ears to ignore the rumbling thunder bouncing off the windows, focusing in on whatever David said next. 

“...The truth is, something happened at my old school.” He admitted, haltingly. “It was the reason why my family moved here in the first place.” 

Kyle blinked, eyebrows subconsciously knitting together. “What are you talking about?”

David glanced away, like he couldn’t bring himself to look into Kyle’s eyes. That wasn’t good. The taller boy fell silent again, retreating back into hesitation. 

“David,” Kyle called, trying to coax him into the conversation again. “What happened? Was it bad?”

Kyle wasn’t quite sure what kind of answer he was expecting. He wasn’t even sure if that was the right question to ask. He just wanted to rid himself of the guilt that he’d overlooked a potential murderer because he was being flirted with. He wanted to be wrong. 

David finally looked at him, breathing out a short sigh. “Yeah.” 

He glanced up and down the aisle they stood in, ensuring there was no one around to eavesdrop on them. Kyle followed his eyes until they met his own again. 

“...It happened around three months ago,” David began. “My grades were dropping, and… my parents enrolled me into summer school. My math teacher and I, we got into an argument. During class.” 

Kyle just listened. David shook his head as he spoke.

“It wasn’t just him. There were others, too. They treated me horribly . They’d make an idiot out of me in front of everyone, and— my teacher did nothing. He did nothing but laugh. He laughed every time he called on me, knowing my answer would be wrong. He knew I wasn’t getting it.” 

David paused, wrapping his arms around himself, almost protectively. He was staring at his feet, awkwardly dividing his weight between the two. 

“One day, I just– I lost it. I was already dealing with too much, and he… he still wouldn’t stop.” 

Kyle felt his heart begin to pick up its pace, pounding behind his ribs. He had zero idea where this was going, and yet he couldn’t help the nervous chill that crawled up his arms. 

“...He called me stupid. And– I don’t know, maybe to some degree I deserved it, but– it was almost everyday . I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Lightning flashed over the room, illuminating the side of David’s face for a moment. 

“When the bell rang, I confronted him. In the hallway. I… screamed at him, about how much I hated him. How useless his lessons were. I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier, and– I-I couldn’t stop myself in time.” David’s nails dug into the skin on his arms. Kyle gulped, unprepared for whatever happened next. “…I pushed him. I pushed him down the stairs. He fell an entire flight.” 

Kyle’s lips fell open, only slightly, shock seeping into his features. He allowed the cold fear to mellow in his bloodstream, linger long enough until the severity of David’s confession settled in. Kyle took an instinctual step backwards, fighting the impulsive urge to run. He didn’t know what would happen if he did. David didn’t lie because he was embarrassed of a secret, he didn’t lie for a reason Kyle wanted to hear. He lied because he hurt someone. David hurt someone. 

The taller boy shut his eyes in a long blink. “Once I realized what I did, I— it was like I was frozen. I knew I should have ran to help him, or called another teacher, but… I just stood there.”

“Did—“ Kyle swallowed a lump in his throat. He spoke carefully, unsure of how to approach the situation. “Did he die?”

“No.” David shook his head, aiding Kyle’s momentary relief. “No, but… he was injured. Badly. He hit his head, a-and broke his neck on the way down. He’s in a coma, at a hospital back in Boise.”

Kyle brought a hand to his lips, stifling a gasp that threatened to escape his throat. His feet were planted into the carpet of the library floor, cemented in place by an unseeable force. He didn’t know whether to bail, run back to Kenny yelling that he was right, or sit here and listen to David try and justify himself. If that was even possible. 

David spoke again, unaware of Kyle’s rapidly beating heart. “I went to court, got freed on bail… then we moved here. My parents wanted me to have a fresh start.”

Kyle felt it. The question sliding up his throat like bile, burning his mouth and tongue, unable to keep his words down. His insides churned with something he couldn’t decipher. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was curiosity. At this point, there wasn’t much of a difference. 

He could run. He could paint David a suspect and it would be so easy. But, the spiel he’d given to Kenny kept bobbing into his mind. He needed to consider every aspect of David’s story. He needed to understand David’s perspective. If he wasn’t true to his own words, then it wasn’t fair. David deserved a fair chance to be ruled out, whether he hurt Kyle or not. 

Now it was his turn to break eye contact. Kyle lowered his hand. “I-I don’t get it, why didn’t your parents say anything at the funeral? I mean– t-they just talked about you like–”

“Like I was normal?” David finished for him. Kyle paused. 

“...Not in so many words, but…” He trailed off, trying desperately not to say the wrong thing. A sigh escaped his lungs, and his shoulders sagged. “Yeah.”

David’s lips pressed together to form a frown. “My parents… they want to forget about it as much as I do, but… it haunts me. I don’t think I ever will. I’ve always had.. trouble, with my emotions, but– I’ve never lost control like that. I regret it so deeply.” 

Kyle felt the exact moment where more questions began to flow into his mind, consuming his thoughts. The dots began to connect themselves, even without clarification. He leaned back against the bookshelf opposite to David, satisfied with the truth. Satisfied enough to consider that maybe he was reaching farther than he should have. 

“You were laying low to make sure no one here knew about what happened, weren’t you?” He asked, his observation meaning to sound like a statement. Kyle already knew he was right. He could see it in the way David carried himself. How a child looked as they were being scolded by their mother, admitting to something they did wrong. David couldn’t possibly be that good of an actor. 

He looked at Kyle, eyes solemn with an earnest stare. “...Yes.” 

Kyle didn’t say anything. 

“I was terrified that– that people would find out. That they would be afraid of me. That you would be afraid of me.” David said, tone pitching up desperately. “...I spent the first week of school scoping things out, trying to figure out how much this town knew. But… no one knew. At least, not until now.” 

David carded one of his hands through his hair, flipping the strands off his forehead only to have them bounce right back into place. 

“And– when I saw you here, in the library, I– I don’t know, you just looked so… approachable. I really wanted to know you. It wasn’t my intention to lie, it just… happened. I didn’t want you to be afraid of me, Kyle.” 

Kyle sighed, noise concealed by a long tumble of thunder. “...And were you ever going to tell me the truth?”

David stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking down again. “...Eventually.”

Kyle huffed. “That’s comforting.” 

David lifted his head back up. “But– whatever you’re thinking, whatever– whatever your friends have suggested– I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill that girl.” 

“I know,” Kyle said, honestly. He could hear Kenny’s voice in the back of his head, screaming the opposite, but now that Kyle knew the truth, things were different. Because he knew how David felt. He knew what it felt like to be singled out. To be laughed at. His heart riddled itself with reminders of that day, unrelenting shame rearing its ugly head once more. Kyle and David’s situations were different, but they shared in common a feeling of regret. A feeling that they were alone. 

Because, in truth, Kyle was alone. In the weeks following the day his life was ruined, he was alone. He’d lost his best friend, the comfort of his family, every ounce of confidence he’d dared build inside of him, crumpled and crushed right before his eyes. He was falling, fast, with no one there to catch him. Kyle wondered if David was bullied for the same reason he was. He wondered if something similar had driven him over the edge, like the betrayal of a loved one did for him. Kyle became closed off, bounded by silence and insecurity, unable to call for help. David had turned to violence, cornered and forced to defend himself. That much was clear.

The boy was capable of violence, yes, but only if provoked. As was anyone, which made it even harder to gauge whether or not David truly was a suspect. Kyle couldn’t rule him out simply because they had both been traumatized, because they had something in common. He needed evidence. Solid, stone evidence. But, that was hard when the person in front of him looked so innocent. 

David had nearly killed someone, and while that was reason enough to suspect him, it wasn’t on purpose. It was a spur of the moment, the result of pent up anger. If Kyle didn’t recognize that, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his investigation. Like he’d told Kenny, he needed to know the full story. He needed to consider every perspective. Kyle dragged his eyes up and down David’s frame, studying him. David didn’t seem like someone who had trouble with his emotions. He didn’t look like he could lose control as he did. Kyle couldn’t bring his mind to picture David with a knife in his hands, standing over a dead body. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit. Something pierced through Kyle’s gut, telling him that he was heading in the wrong direction. His heart rate had settled down. David wasn’t threatening Kyle, nor did he look like he was growing agitated. He just looked… defeated. That was a good sign. It meant he was showing remorse. 

For once, Kyle was glad not to be subject to Kenny’s advice. For once, Kyle trusted his instinct. It was clear to him that David regretted what he had done, he couldn’t possibly be faking that. Kyle could feel the tension settle between the two of them, the weight of the truth. David still couldn’t look him directly in the eyes. Kyle didn’t blame him for that. 

He took in a reassuring breath, lungs expanding with something akin to relief. It could have been much worse. “So… when you said that– I’m not the first person you’ve lied to…” 

David caught on, prepared with context. “I.. meant that I’ve lied to everyone who’s asked me why I came here.” 

Kyle nodded his head along. “Right.” 

David lifted an arm, gesturing in the air, before letting it fall back against his side. “Our– cover is that my parents finally took the jump and opened a restaurant. The only affordable place we could find was.. here.” 

“Is that true?” Kyle asked, spiked once more with curiosity from how specific that sounded. When David nodded, he frowned. “You never told me that.”

David chuckled, humorlessly. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to make conversation with anyone. Especially, someone like you. What can I say? You… surprised me.” 

Kyle ignored how those words caused something to flutter in his stomach. Now wasn’t the time to get flustered. There were other things at stake. 

David continued. “But… the restaurant is nothing special. My parents have me working there to make up the money they used for my bail.” 

Kyle’s brain clicked, like that was the final thing he needed to hear in order to piece together how he felt about David. He had excuses, but they were plausible. Kyle didn’t know how to feel about that.

While the bigger part of him was worried that David was behind the murders, another part of him needed that to be true. David was Kyle’s only true suspect, the only person that fit the bill. He wanted to be wrong, for the sake of his and his friend’s safety, but if he was then he’d be back to square one. He would no longer have a suspect, over the thousands of other occupants in their town. He would be back to worrying. Back to being in danger. Back to being open-minded and paranoid of everyone who passes him in the hallways. 

He wanted David’s story to have holes. He wanted something to not add up. He wanted to have an excuse that would justify his suspicions. But he didn’t. David’s truth was just that. The truth. Kyle could wish all he wanted for that not to be the case, but it wouldn’t change anything. 

He relaxed, huffing under his breath. “That… makes sense.”

David must have picked up on his tone, tensing up and probably expecting an argument. He gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down.  “...Is that a bad thing?”

Kyle’s mouth fell open, hesitating for a moment. 

“Not for the reasons you might think.” He supplied, lips curving into an apologetic smile. “...I’m not afraid of you, David.”

He said that with confidence. 

David frowned. “But… are you afraid of what I’m capable of?” 

Kyle wouldn’t lie to him. “Yeah. As anyone would be. But, I also understand you. I understand where your reaction came from. Believe it or not, we– have the bullying thing in common.”

“Seriously?” David’s eyebrows shot up. “…Who would ever want to bully you?”

Kyle stopped for a moment, debating whether or not it was worth it to poke around in his past. But, ultimately, he shook his head. “That’s not important.” 

He bowed his neck, staring downwards and dragging his shoe across the carpet. The guilt was returning again, but it was different now. Kyle was wrong for assuming before asking.

“I’m… sorry I jumped to conclusions. I tend to do that a lot.” He said, without meeting David’s eyes.

The taller boy had visibly settled down, shoulders slumping forward with hints of relief in his posture. 

“You had every right to be suspicious, Kyle.” He stated, tone as sincere as it could get. “I’m just lucky you gave me a chance to explain myself. For that, I… thank you.” 

Kyle smiled softly, looking up again. “Fair warning, I don’t give second chances to everyone.” 

David smiled back. “I’ll try not to mess mine up, then.” 

Kenny wouldn’t like this. He wouldn’t like it when Kyle tells him that David was responsible for almost killing someone. He wouldn’t like that in a sense, they had both been right about him. He wouldn’t like that Kyle decided to forgive him. Kyle would get an earful before he was given the chance to sit back down at their table, and Kenny wouldn’t let David get close again. Hell, Kyle wouldn’t be surprised if David walked out of there with two broken arms. 

Maybe… maybe Kyle could stretch the truth. The thought of lying to Kenny twice made him sick with guilt, but if he wanted to protect both him and David– it was the only way. He’d managed to lie about coming clean to Yates for a while, and only once did Kenny second guess him. This was a much bigger secret, with a much worse fallout. Kyle could feel his nerves washing over him again, was he really risking his closest friendship for someone he just met? Maybe that’s how it would seem in Kenny’s eyes, if he ever discovered the truth.

But Kyle couldn’t let that happen.

With a decision made, he pulled himself back to reality, smirking. “Do you actually like world history or was that a lie too?”

David chuckled, a bright smile lighting up his features. “Yes. I like world history.” He said, much to Kyle’s pleasure. “Maybe.. we could study sometime?” 

Kenny wouldn’t like that either. 

“A study date.” Kyle’s smile grew wider, despite his underlying anxiety. “How original.” 

“I’m a jack of all trades,” David quipped, sensing that Kyle was coming around. They laughed through their conversation, skipping the part where unwelcomed awkwardness made its entrance. Everything about David felt natural to Kyle, the flow of their words matched in perfect sync, like the wavelengths of their minds were one in the same. It was nice, a change of pace compared to Kyle’s other friends. 

Another loud crack of thunder had broken their focus, forcing reality back on their shoulders. It was a miracle, how easily Kyle could forget the situation around him. Usually, he was hard to distract, but something about David had broken the cardinal rules Kyle made up for himself. He wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

He pushed off the bookshelf and stepped aside, David following. 

“I won’t tell anyone what happened. If– you don’t want me to.” Kyle offered, pulling his sleeves over his hands for something to fidget with. “I can just make something up. My friends won’t think anything of it.” 

“You don’t have to lie for me, Kyle. After everything that’s happened, the last thing I want to do is put you under more stress.” David replied, smiling gratefully. 

Kyle wanted to throw up, for reasons other than nausea. He hated how David made him feel validated, how he recognized that he’d been through so much. He hated how David would rather jeopardize himself than take an out. He hated that the truth did the exact opposite Kyle wanted it to – it made him like David even more. Yet another curveball the universe threw his way. Having a crush while a murderer roamed the streets of South Park certainly wasn’t ideal. 

But with the way David looked at him, the way that charming smile wormed its way into Kyle’s heart, he couldn’t help it. His chest swelled with an unfamiliar feeling of affection, something he hadn’t felt since middle school. Something he’d pushed away before. 

Kyle cleared his throat, breaking away from David’s eyes. “I should, um.. get back.”

David nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure if we stay here any longer Kenny would send out a search party for you.” 

Kyle laughed off David’s comment, and although it was exaggerated, he wouldn’t put Kenny past it. 

The two left the romance section shortly after, strolling back through the same path they’d taken to get there. Kyle passed by the same people he did before, still curled up and unmoving as they sobbed with dread on the floor. The storm had eased up, but not by much, the sky was still a sickly dark grey casting shadows over the town. As Kyle glanced over the wall of windows, he could no longer see the treeline that surrounded the campus, distance closed by a thick blanket of fog. While a lockdown was nerve wracking in itself, he knew it was better to be surrounded by his peers. Now that Kyle was sure there was a serial killer out there, he certainly didn’t want to be alone. 

He wanted to try his parents’ cells again, but it wouldn’t help much. All Kyle would be doing is clogging their voicemails. He could only call so many times, he was sure his parents got the hint after the third message. Kyle just had to wait for them to call him back. He had to push aside his envy towards his classmates, who had their whole families to run back to once this thing was all over. Kyle only had Ike, and he wouldn’t be getting home until dark. He just had to pretend like he could get a grip on his emotions without the aid of his parents. 

Kyle and David parted ways somewhere around the nonfiction section, rushing goodbyes and vague plans to see each other around. Kyle wasn’t sure where else David had to go, the taller boy hadn’t mentioned having friends other than Kyle. But maybe he just wanted to avoid sounding awkward. 

When Kyle rounded the bookshelf closest to his friends’ table, Kenny was already turned his way. He looked worried, concerned as if he wasn’t actually expecting Kyle to come back in one piece. Kyle recalled his own words, how David would have had to really be insane if he wanted to try something in a library full of students, and it was true. Kenny was just overprotective. 

“Well?!” Kenny asked, in a hushed tone as Kyle approached the table. Butters and Tweek lifted their heads, noting his presence.

Kyle took the same seat as he had before, dreading the conversation that would follow. He still wasn’t exactly sure what to tell his friends and what to leave out, David had suggested that he tell the truth – but Kyle knew how badly that would go. Kyle knew that David was innocent, but he wouldn’t lie about the fact that what David did made him look very guilty. Especially to outsiders, people who weren’t a part of their previous chat. Which meant that Kyle had to do everything he could to throw suspicion off of him. 

A half-truth was still a lie, but to a lesser degree. He decided he would go with that. 

Kyle made sure that Tweek and Butters were a part of the conversation before answering Kenny. He folded his arms over the surface of the table, looking between all three of his friends. Butters had re-bookmarked the novel he was now halfway through, and Tweek was sitting ready for the story – both attentive. 

“...David was bullied at his old school. Badly,” Kyle said, trying to stay as close to the truth as he could without giving away the biggest detail. “His parents had to pull him out and relocate. That’s why they moved here.”

Butters’ shoulders slumped down, his eyebrows upturning with sincerity. “How awful, David must’a been real scared to transfer to a whole new school.”

Kyle nodded, his heart skipping a beat with how quick Butters was to believe him. This may not go so badly after all. 

“That still doesn’t explain why he lied about how long he’s been here.” Kenny pointed out, already sensing that something was off about Kyle’s story. 

He turned to him, trying to keep Kenny off track. “That’s because he spent the first week here scoping out bullies, like Cartman.” Kyle paused, glancing away before locking eyes with Kenny again. “And Stan.”

Kenny raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you mean stalking people? Choosing his victims? You’re not seriously buying his shit, are you, Kyle?” 

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Yes! Because he actually has a solid alibi! Plus, what reason would he have to hurt Scott? Bebe, even?” 

That was a truthful thought in Kyle’s mind. David hadn’t known Scott, or Bebe, prior to moving to South Park. He’d known nothing about them, not even the fact that they existed. He wouldn’t have had time to gather motive on either of them, let alone plan around their schedules. How could he have known the exact times Scott and Bebe would be alone? It didn’t make sense. It was just a desperate attempt to blame someone, Kyle was too eager. 

“I don’t know,” Kenny replied, stopping for a moment, before pushing his chair back. “But I’m willing to find out.” 

He stood up from his seat, squeezing past the bookshelf and heading towards the middle of the library. Kyle lost a few seconds in response to following him, he was too busy trying to wrap his head around what Kenny was planning to do. When the words finally registered, Kyle jumped up from his chair and ran after him, leaving Butters and Tweek still sitting at the table. 

“Kenny!” He called, trying to keep up with Kenny's powerful and determined stride. “You cannot be serious!” 

Kenny craned his neck around for a moment, regarding the redhead gaining on him. “You may not be able to see through him, Kyle, but I can. And something doesn’t add up.” 

Kenny didn’t respond to Kyle’s pleads to stop, and Kyle knew shit was about to go down. Kenny wouldn’t play nice, as soon as he laid eyes on David he would start grilling him — then the whole library would overhear. Conflict was the last thing they needed during a lockdown, especially with so many of their peers already stressed. It wouldn’t solve anything. 

Kyle was desperate. He didn’t want to get in trouble, and he didn’t want Kenny to drag David into a fight unwarranted. The repercussions would likely end with Kenny being suspended, or worse— expelled. The blonde had already had his fair share of fights, and he certainly wasn’t on the best terms with Principal Victoria. If Kenny started something, he would be in deep shit. 

When Kyle caught up to him, he reached an arm out towards him to grab his shoulder, but a sudden movement stopped him. 

One minute, Kenny was in front of him, and the next, he was being slammed into a bookshelf. 

A loud thud followed as Kenny’s body made contact with the shelf. Kyle froze in his place, silently gasping as he watched Tolkien Black take a fistful of Kenny’s shirt, pinning him so hard against the shelf that books had toppled over. Kenny groaned from the unexpected pain, the edges of the shelves digging into his back. When the shock factor wore off, Kyle surged forward.

“Tolkien–!” He tried, before an arm was outstretched over his middle. Kyle froze again, eyes traveling up a varsity jacket sleeve to meet Craig Tucker, another one of Stan’s shithead friends. Craig’s arm kept him back, unable to intercept whatever Tolkien had planned. 

“Was it you, freak?!” Tolkien screamed, shoving Kenny harder against the shelf. Two more books clattered to the ground. “Did you think Stan took it too far the other night?!”

Kyle tried to fight past Craig’s arm, but the boy wouldn’t let up. Standing near Craig’s side was Kevin Stoley, riled up and ready to jump in if Kenny decided to fight back. The only one missing from the group was Stan himself. 

“What the hell are you talking about?! Get off of me!” Kenny yelled, struggling to escape Tolkien’s grip. 

“Sizzler’s!” Tolkien emphasized, pulling Kenny back and shoving him into the shelf again. “Stan told you off so you go out and kill one of his best friends?! I knew you were sick, McCormick, but this is an entirely new level of psychotic!”

Kenny bristled, furrowing his eyebrows at the accusation. “What the fuck are you on, dude?! I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Murder’s a little far for petty revenge, don’t you think?!” Kyle chimed in, still trying to fight past Craig’s arm, preventing him from intervening. 

In a desperate attempt, Kenny turned to Kevin and Craig, eyes narrow and agitated. “Can you tell your friend to chill the fuck out?!” 

“Why should we? We all know how much you hate Stan, maybe even more than Cartman.” Craig said, glaring daggers of disgust into Kenny’s eyes. “Seems motive enough to me.” 

Tolkien smiled maniacally, teeth shining in Kenny’s pupils with bloodlust on his breath. “What’s the verdict, you guys? Think we’d be heroes for beating the South Park serial killer into a bloody pulp?” 

“Are you guys insane?! I hate Stan too, that doesn’t mean I killed anyone! Just let him go!” Kyle shouted, hoping that Stan’s friends would back off. They were already gaining some form of a crowd, intrigued students gathered around the scene to watch what was going on. Kyle was panicking. Kenny’s breathing was constricted by Tolkien’s arm now pressing against his neck, refusing to let him go for an ounce of air. 

“Don’t worry, Broflovski– we’re not letting you off, either.” Craig said, turning his focus onto the shorter boy beside him. “Stan took something from you, why not return the favor by taking his friends’ lives?”

Kyle bristled, unable to comprehend the audacity Craig possessed. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!” 

“I should be asking you that! You’re the one who forced yourself on him in middle school, maybe you’re still upset that he rejected you!” Craig replied in a loud tone, getting in Kyle’s face as if intimidating him would prove a point. 

The crowd was gradually growing bigger after each vulgar insult was spat, Kyle couldn’t count on his fingers how many pairs of eyes were on them. He hoped that it would catch the attention of the officer guarding the library doors, preferably before the punching began. 

Kyle felt trapped, cornered like an animal while Craig’s eyes tore through him. The vice of his stare had him crushed between its jaws, surging his body with an ice cold shudder. It was one thing to accuse him of murder, it was another to blatantly bring up his and Stan’s past. It hurt, especially because Kyle was the only one who truly knew it was a lie. It also gave him fair motive. He didn’t like that. 

Tolkien was still busy keeping Kenny pinned against the bookshelf, grip akin to iron each time Kenny tried to move. Tolkien didn’t let up, determined for something to happen. Kyle was speechless, throat closing up with unadulterated helplessness. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell Craig off, maybe land a punch of his own under his right eye — it was the fact that Kyle couldn’t even find words to respond with. He was stunned. 

Craig leaned down, closer towards him. “...Tell me, Broflovski. Who’s next on your list?” 

“Hopefully, no one,” A new voice broke in, which had all five of the boys snapping their heads towards it. 

Yates was standing amongst the crowd, Murphy by his side as he surveyed the scene before him. Tolkien’s smirk was wiped clean off his face faster than Kyle could blink, finally letting Kenny up as he backed off. Kenny retaliated by shoving Tolkien for good measure, the captain stumbling before regaining his balance. Glares were exchanged, but Tolkien opted not to fight back.

A pit of anxiousness grew in Kyle’s gut, because he knew that if Yates was in the library, it couldn’t be for good reason. The detective should be busy trying to neutralize the threat, determine whether or not Bebe’s killer was still on campus. Was he here to arrest someone? Did he find out who did it? Was Kyle about to come face to face with the person who took his best friend?

Yates’ eyes scanned the group, as the boys awkwardly stood around waiting to be reprimanded. The crowd that had previously circled them had long ago dispersed, and the library once again descended into hushed conversation, each student not caught in Yates’ line of sight trying desperately to avoid the mess. 

“I’m not gonna ask who started it. Quite frankly, I don’t care.” The detective said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat. Kyle hated how casual his tone always sounded. 

Tolkien stepped forward, much to the group’s surprise, advancing so quickly that Yates and Murphy almost flinched. “Did you find out who did it?! Did you find out who killed Bebe?!”

“Easy, son. We’re still gathering information.” Yates replied, lifting one of his palms to signal for Tolkien to back up. The captain listened, putting distance between the two until he was standing at Kevin’s side. 

“Lucky for you, you all can help with that.” Yates looked to the rest of the boys again, considering each face until he landed on Kyle’s. Uncomfortable eye contact followed, Kyle felt like the man was looking right through him. He smiled, a friendly toothless grin. Too bad Kyle never caught the attitude Yates was attempting to give off. 

“Mr. Broflovski, would you mind following me, please?” The detective asked, tone laced with an underlying sense of knowing. 

Kyle looked back at Kenny, just as he did the first time this happened. He wasn’t sure why, he knew that Kenny couldn’t offer anything more than a reassuring nod. And Kenny did just that, he gave Kyle a short nod, with unspoken promises to see each other when this was all over. 

Yates turned around, Murphy behind him as they headed towards the library entrance. As Kyle followed suit, he tried to ignore the way his mind swirled with questions. And the way his stomach curled with something tense.

Chapter Text

The silence that followed Stan’s phone call with the stranger was nearly deafening. It was louder than it should have been, louder than the walls around him could hold. There was a ringing in his ears that wasn’t there before, and Stan could no longer tell the difference between anger and fear. His mind swarmed with unanswered questions that he would probably never get the chance to ask, not as long as whoever called him had the upper hand. 

A flash of white light illuminated the hallway, casting shadows which flickered before retreating back into the darkness. The intensity of the thunderstorm outside was the least of Stan’s worries now. His thumb still hovered over his phone screen, waiting for his brain to think of what to do next. Did he dare try calling Scott’s phone back? Would the stranger even answer him? They didn’t seem like the type to let Stan have the last word. 

The sound of voices then helped him bounce back from his thoughts, gradually growing louder as they neared the hallway he stood in. Stan shoved his phone into his pocket, quick to hide the evidence if someone, like Yates, were to turn the corner. The detective always seemed to ask the right questions, and if presented with the opportunity, Stan knew he wouldn’t pass up an interrogation. Especially with him. 

Attempting to act normal, the quarterback spun on his heel and continued down the length of the hallway, staying on track with his original objective. The longer he wasted time out there, the longer Clyde would be left by himself – trapped with his thoughts. Stan knew from experience that that was the worst thing he could possibly do. Clyde was arguably in a much worse state than the rest of their friends, he could only imagine what was going through his head. 

And if Stan couldn’t even get his own shit together, how would he ever be able to help Clyde? 

The library was a stale yet relieving welcome, as he stepped into the room where the rest of his peers had been the whole time. He’d been escorted back after he and Clyde left the locker room, by an officer who didn’t talk much. Stan managed to snag a grey crewneck sweater with their school’s logo, and a pair of brown cargo pants. They weren’t perfect, definitely not something Clyde would choose to wear, but it was better than anything else in that bin, and the linebacker had been thankful nonetheless. 

Two more officers took Clyde to a different classroom, awaiting the arrival of his father. They exchanged their goodbyes, Stan promising to call him later whenever he got out of this hellhole. Clyde nodded to him, trying desperately to smile, but the outcome was far from it. Stan didn’t blame him. He’d hesitated, watching the brunette sulk and trudge away with unspeakable tragedies wafting between them. He wanted to call out, feeling like he should, but there was nothing left for him to say. Nothing that Clyde didn’t already hear. 

Stan surveyed the separated crowds of students, some huddled around tables, others idling near bookshelves. The library was as busy as it ever would be, for reasons other than eager learners. It didn’t take long for him to spot his friends, a group of grief-sodden familiar faces. Stan walked down the stairs, heading straight for the table in the furthest corner from the door. His eyes drifted as he moved, studying the expressions of those he didn’t recognize. None of them were normal. Not that Stan even knew what normal looked like anymore. Teary eyes and traumatized stares were all he saw, each of his classmates affected differently by what happened. 

And while Scott’s death had been equally as brutal as Bebe’s, it was an entirely different story to watch it happen. Or, rather, witness the aftermath. Stan felt awful diminishing his former friend into nothing more than that, a bloody corpse, but he felt even worse trying to imagine Bebe’s smile after such a sight. He had trouble even picturing the true tone of her skin, after a sickly, pale white engrained itself into his memory. It pained him as he realized the same for Scott. How that just weeks from now, maybe even days, Stan wouldn’t even remember the color of his eyes. Not without a picture. 

Then, Stan’s wandering eyes caught sight of one more familiar face — one that should have been in his thoughts to begin with. 

Wendy sat on the ground with her knees tucked into her chest, back flush against a bookshelf surrounded by other girls from the cheer squad. Red McArthur had her arm slung around Wendy’s shoulders, soothing the sobbing girl with slow circular motions of her palm against her. Heidi Turner held Wendy’s hand in hers, clasping their fingers together while shedding tears of her own. Stan couldn’t see the others, backs facing his passing form, but he could sense the amount of despair between them. For a moment, he slowed his pace, debating whether or not he should stop and offer comfort. But the last time he’d spoken to Wendy brought sharp guilt to his chest, the way he’d left her to her own devices after she’d practically begged to help him. She was clearly vulnerable, disturbed just as he had been. He wasn’t sure if his presence was really what she needed right now. 

Stan continued on, a frown plastered over his lips as he forced himself to look away. Emerging from an aisle of shelves, his friends’ table was in clear view of him. His arrival prompted all pairs of eyes to fall upon him, desperate and loaded with questions. 

Tolkien shot up from his seat, followed by Kevin and Craig, watching the quarterback approach with expectant faces. “Where’s Clyde? Is he okay?” 

“Is he coming here?” Craig quickly added on. 

“He’s…” Stan hesitated again, unsure of an existing word that was appropriate enough to describe Clyde’s condition. “H-He’s waiting in another room for his dad to show up. Detective Murphy suggested he stay separated from everyone else."

Tolkien scrubbed a hand over his hair, breaking eye contact while he assessed his own emotions. 

“…What about you?” Kevin voiced, gripping the back of the chair he previously sat in. “A-Are you okay?”

“I— I don’t…” Stan’s brain short-circuited, wordlessly balking while trying to think of an answer. His unwilling silence seemed to be answer enough for the rest of his friends. 

“Yeah… us neither.” Craig said, dejectedly. 

Kevin took a seat again, closer to Stan. Tangling his fingers in his hair, he breathed in sharply. “This— this is fucking crazy, man. What the hell is going on?!” 

Craig turned to him. “…Two of our friends were murdered, Kevin, I think it’s safe to say that someone’s targeting us.” 

Stan perked up. “You think so?” 

Craig gave a vigorous nod. “First Scott, and now Bebe? And what happened to Clyde? You do the math, dude. Someone doesn’t like our friend group.” 

Stan stifled a feeling of bile inching up his throat. Craig had a point, a point he’d already made himself, but a point nonetheless. These murders weren’t just personal, they were warnings. And they wouldn’t be the last ones, either. Stan had heard so himself from the very person responsible. They were being targeted, and there was no telling who would be next. 

“We thought it was McCormick, maybe even Broflovski.” Tolkien said, catching all of Stan’s attention. “We jumped them before you came in—“

“What?” Stan cut him off, his eyebrows pinching together with surprise. “You jumped them?! Why the fuck—“

“Because they’re the only ones in this room who hate us enough to hurt us!” Tolkien didn’t even let him finish. 

“Have you idiots even seen McCormick? He may act tough but that fucker’s all bark and no bite. And Kyle—“ Stan stopped himself, unable to think of anything to say. His mind was jumbled, but nothing could surface about the redhead. Maybe he was more messed up than he thought. “Kyle’s— h-he’s not capable. No way.” 

Craig scoffed, unconvinced. “Speak for yourself, dude— remember when that hick gave Clyde a black eye in sophomore year? All for an off-handed comment, McCormick’s got a short temper.” 

Stan bristled. “You’re out of line, Tucker. Comparing a fucking bruise to— to that?!” He gestured towards the direction of the gym. “Anyone can throw a punch. But who the hell is capable of gutting someone?” 

Silence befell the group as Stan’s words resonated. The quarterback cringed at the thought of defending Kenny, but now wasn’t the time to jump to conclusions. None of them were thinking clearly, every shred of what they believed could be evidence was coming from an impulsive place. 

None of them had ever felt like this before. Stan had never understood how deep real terror could run, overshadow the rest of his emotions as if it were a fucking contest. Fear like this had never festered so painfully within him, not even when his mother had slapped him for the first time. Not even when Randy had pushed him down the stairs in a drunken rage. This was different, because it involved people other than himself facing danger. It involved his friends, people he cared about. And he was sure the others felt the same way. 

Kyle fidgeted in his seat, an uncomfortable quietness trapped in the classroom with him. He’d only been sitting there for a few minutes, but of course under these circumstances it felt like hours. He was growing anxious, occasionally stealing glances while trying to study the detective’s expression. Yates’ furrowed eyebrows and pondering stare barely told him anything, other than the fact that this conversation wouldn’t be light. Why Yates had singled him out first was nerve wracking in itself — did he know something that Kyle didn’t? Did he know about the phone calls? 

“Do I need to ask about what happened back there?” Yates finally spoke up, without lifting his gaze from the desk. He’d been flipping through a manilla folder, skimming over every page more than once. 

Immediately, Kyle tensed up, at first unsure of how to respond. He’d been gathering up what to say if he was accused of something, but this was just a simple question. “No, um— that was nothing. You can probably imagine we’re a little stressed today, Detective.” 

Smooth. Sly. Kyle took a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

“Yes, I can,” Yates said, taking a few pieces of paper from the folder and sliding them across the desk. Kyle watched them. “Sorry about all this. Precautions in case the school was being targeted. Did you know Ms. Stevens?”

Kyle fidgeted with his thumbs underneath the desk, looking down. “No. Not really. I don’t even think I’ve ever talked to her before.” 

“Is that because she was friends with Stan Marsh?” Yates asked, seemingly out of nowhere. 

Kyle’s head shot up again, his eyes slightly narrowed with suspicion. “Why would that matter?”

The detective shrugged one of his shoulders. “Just an assumption. I know the two of you have a history.” 

Kyle hung his head, scoffing at the simplicity of the man’s words. He didn’t think his trauma could ever be reduced to a single sentence. That was certainly one way of putting it. 

“Your parents. They’re out of town?”

Kyle silently thanked the man for the conversational curve. “Yeah. On a cruise.”

“You didn’t think to mention that the last time we spoke?” Yates asked, his voice dropping to a condescending tone. 

“I didn’t think it was important,” Kyle retorted, furrowing his eyebrows. “My parents have nothing to do with this. And I’ve lived with them my whole life, I’m pretty sure they’re not secret psychopaths.” 

They also apparently weren’t capable of answering his phone calls. 

Yates ignored the last part of Kyle’s sentence. “Do you have any actual proof that they’re gone? Have they contacted you at all?” 

“No, but— they’re gone. I can assure you. They wouldn’t leave me and my brother alone without telling us where they’re going.” Kyle folded his arms. “But if you want proof, ask Randy Marsh. He’s the one who drove them to the airport.”

“Stan’s father.” Yates concluded. “I thought you said that you two weren’t friends?” 

“We aren’t, but our parents still are,” Kyle shrugged. “We, uh... grew up together, so they’ve been close for a long time.”

“May I ask what exactly happened between you two?”

Kyle felt his heart skip a beat. “…I don’t see how that’s really relevant to the case, Detective.” 

“It’s relevant to your testimony,” Yates pointed out. “And your potential motive.” 

Kyle forced himself to relax a little, trying to ignore the notion that he and his friends were all suspects in this case. It didn’t seem like Yates had much on him, if he knew about the phone calls from Scott’s number, he would have tried to accuse him. But that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. He was only seventeen, being interrogated for the murders of his best friend and classmate. 

“Not really.” Kyle said, quickly shooting him down. “It’s personal, and not something I’d usually share with someone like you.”

“Why not? Is there something you feel like you need to hide?” Yates pushed on, ever persistent.  

“No,” Kyle returned, his heart beating faster in his chest as he felt all of his trauma rear its ugly head again. “I just— it’s… I don’t like talking about it.” 

Again, Yates ignored him. “You said before that he used to bully you. Did you two get into an argument?”

Kyle’s shoulders tensed. “...Something like that.”

Yates nodded. “Did the conflict turn physical?” 

Kyle quickly shook his head. “We didn’t fight, no. He just— said some things.”

“What kinds of things?” That set him off. 

“Just— things, alright? I told you, it’s not important.” Kyle protested, heated and on the verge of walking out. “Why are you so concerned about it, anyway?”

Yates didn’t look impressed. “I’m concerned because two teenagers are dead, and they just so happened to be friends of both you and Mr. Marsh.” 

Kyle swallowed a lump in his throat, an uneasy feeling churning in his stomach as the quarterback suddenly appeared in his mind.

The conversation had become uncomfortable much faster than he would have liked. He wanted — needed — to change the subject before Yates made him talk about his past with Stan. He searched his mind, dug deep within the bowels of his thoughts to find something to use. Something that would divert the direction of their conversation, but not so much that Yates would catch on. 

And suddenly, Kyle came across it. For once, Cartman was useful, their conversation at the library table still fresh in his memory. 

“Can I ask you something?” He lifted his head, immediately locking eyes with Yates. The man in question raised his eyebrows, but ultimately gestured for Kyle to continue, giving him the floor. 

He took it. “How did you get here so fast?”

Yates looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”

“The police station’s on the complete opposite side of town, Detective.” Kyle said. “You got here in what felt like less than five minutes.” 

Yates didn’t blink for a long moment, seeming to come up with an answer on the spot. “Speed limits don’t necessarily apply to emergency situations, Mr. Broflovski.”

“Still.” Kyle said, his suspicions only growing. He could feel the gears of his mind turning again, working overtime to figure this man out. “…You already knew about Bebe, didn’t you?”

The man then visibly tensed up, his shoulders pulled back in a poor attempt to straighten his posture. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to accuse me of, kid, but—“

“How else could you have gotten here so quickly, if not because you were expecting something like this to happen?” Kyle questioned, turning the tables. 

The two then descended into a standoff, each of them struggling to maintain the upper hand in the conversation. Kyle noticed the way Yates’ eye twitched with a stitch of irritation, and he couldn’t help the faint feeling of pride swelling in his chest. Your move, he thought to himself.

After a long beat, the detective exhaled a long breath of exhaustion. He carded a hand through his orange locks, breaking eye contact. Kyle could have sworn he heard the man mumble a ‘god damn it’ under his breath.

“...Alright, yeah. We knew.” Yates relented, finally yielding to the redhead’s accusations. “We received a 9-1-1 call early this morning about a car illegally parked at Stark’s Pond. One of the officers went out to take a look, and he reported that the driver’s side window was smashed in and covered in blood. The car was registered to Roger Stevens, Bebe’s father. He confirmed that it was his daughter’s car.”

“What?” Kyle’s face paled. Partly because of the information, partly because he was right. He shook his head with disbelieving eyes. “W-Who made the call?” 

Yates’ expression turned again, this time pinched into a look of hesitation. “The call came from Peter Charles. He was doing his rounds on the jogging trail around the lake. Came across it on his way back.” 

Kyle had to physically refrain himself from swearing out loud, the name immediately causing the hairs on his neck to stand up. PC? What were the odds that his principal discovered two crime scenes in a row? Was he– could it be possible that PC was the one behind this? Or could it be that someone just wanted it to look that way?

He was doing it again. Overthinking. Kyle was drowning in possibilities and he couldn’t take it anymore. His brain was tired, for god’s sake he barely had time to register that Bebe was dead. And that he saw it. Now he was trying to connect dots that didn’t even exist, with little to no evidence to support his case. It was too much. There was too much to process. Too much to consider, and Kyle understood why Yates was stressed. 

He shook his head again, his veins bleeding with mild panic. “PC? If he found the car, why aren’t you investigating him?”

“We plan on it,” Yates assured him, his eyes shifting to a stern gaze again. “But right now, I’m more concerned about you and your friends.” 

“And why, because– you think a couple of depressed teenagers are capable of murder?” Kyle argued, narrowing his eyes. 

Yates’ gaze was stern and unwavering, no doubt a practiced quirk. “Everyone is capable of murder, Mr. Broflovski.”

Kyle reeled from his words, suppressing a shiver that threatened to crawl up his spine. He balled his hands into tight fists below the desk’s surface, hiding his unease, though it was obvious with his stiff posture. 

“...Why did you come here? To South Park?” He found himself asking, although he didn’t give Yates much of a chance to answer. “It’s because you think there’s something happening here, isn’t there?” 

“Mr. Broflovski—“

He couldn’t stop the words before they left his mouth. “Do you think the murders are related?” 

A pregnant silence fell over the room, the tension of the question so thick Kyle could almost feel it in the air. It may have been the wrong thing to ask, but he couldn’t ignore that he’d been wondering the same thing since the lockdown started. Him, along with the rest of his peers. The answer seemed obvious, given the evidence, the ominous phone calls from Scott’s phone, but all Kyle wanted was a professional opinion. 

Yates sighed again, finally closing the folder that still lay on the teacher’s desk. “I cannot and will not reveal confidential information to a seventeen-year-old boy.” 

“But you told me about Bebe’s car,” Kyle pointed out, his tone hopeful. 

“Because that’ll be public information by the end of the day. Hell, it probably already is.” Yates answered, tossing one of his hands up in a defeated gesture. 

Kyle chewed on the inside of his cheek with thought before responding, “Off the record, then.”

Yates sighed again, a sound of reluctance and impatience. “Kid, just because you say ‘off the record’ doesn’t mean—“ 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Detective, but the police in this town are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. They’ve never seen anything like this before. None of us have, so they’re not going to be of very much help.” Kyle said, cutting Yates’ sentence short. His words were rich with irony, considering the fact that he had yet to admit about receiving phone calls from Scott’s number. He felt the guilt start to rise, but he snuffed out the flame before it grew too powerful. 

The detective looked at him, his apologetic eyes catching the lights above them. Kyle knew full well what he was insinuating, a plea to help in any way he could, but Yates’ face had shot down his last flicker of hope. 

“I’m sorry, Kyle. I really am. But this need-to-know basis is a one way street.” Yates said. “You have much bigger responsibilities than playing detective.” 

Kyle perked up at the unfamiliar use of his first name, especially because it was from the last person he expected. It meant a lot of things — Yates didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t budge on his oath to the FBI for some hick town teenage boy. But most of all, it meant that Yates was trying to empathize. Worst of all, it meant that Yates felt sorry for him. 

“Like what?” Kyle huffed out a frustrated laugh. “School? Homework? Two people are dead, one of them my best friend, and you think my high school education is more important?” 

“I know it’s a tough pill to swallow, and I know how much you want to help. But there’s not much you can do that we haven’t already done, or are planning to.” Yates pointed out. “Plus, it’s— very illegal for you to meddle in an ongoing investigation. So don’t do it.” 

Kyle ignored the simmering rage burning beneath his chest, searing his lungs and heart so brutally he felt as if he was going to explode. His expectations for Yates were way too high, meaning if he really wanted that kind of information, he’d have to figure it out himself. 

“Whatever.” The redhead spat, unwilling to let his anger go away so easily. “Are we done here? I have to get back to my friends.” 

Yates exhaled a soft breath of vexation. Kyle swore he could see the ghost of a smirk on the man’s lips, amused by his attitude. But maybe that was just the lighting. 

“Yeah, we’re done.” The man acquiesced. “I’ll, uh.. give you a call if I have any more questions.” 

Yeah, you do that, Kyle thought to himself, before rising to his feet and heading out of the room. He pushed the door open and reentered the hallway, casting a quick glance at Detective Murphy, who’d been standing guard outside the room. 

Stan’s table had fallen silent quickly after he’d arrived, neither he nor his friends willing to break it. It wasn’t comforting, and it wasn’t warm, but he couldn’t think of anything to say to make it easier. The thought of Tolkien, Craig, and Kevin being so struck with emotion that they felt warranted to jump their peers was hard enough to believe. Stan knew that they wanted someone to blame, he did, too, but every time he tried to picture it – one of their classmates committing the crime – his gut only heaved with a blaring sense of wrong. 

He hung his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the table with his fingers locked between his strands. His knee bounced up and down with lingering anxiousness, and he couldn’t make it stop. Stan supposed that he would feel this way about anyone potentially behind this, but he couldn’t shake off the raw fear that festered within him at the idea of it being someone close to him. The killer was making this personal, that much was clear to him, but he couldn’t answer himself upon asking who would be sick enough to orchestrate it all. 

When the hinges of the library doors squealed with movement, Stan drew his eyes up from the table to see who had entered. He didn’t know whether to tense up or relax his shoulders when his gaze fell onto Kyle, especially after seeing the unreadable expression on the redhead’s face. He watched him as he descended the stairs and weaved through the groups of students loitering around the room, heading back to his own table. 

His eyes darted back up to the door as it creaked again, Yates and Murphy stepping into the room. This time, Stan tensed, his muscles stiff with a new form of apprehension. He didn’t miss the way the chatter of the room quickly died down, every student feeling the same thing. 

“Kenneth McCormick?” Murphy’s voice echoed between the walls, carrying over to the blonde boy sitting at Kyle’s table. Part of Stan’s view was obstructed by bookshelves, but he could see a mop of golden hair rise up and move throughout the crowd. 

“They’re questioning us?” He asked, purposely keeping his voice low so only his friends could hear. It wasn’t so much a shock to him as it was scary, knowing they were all likely suspects of Scott and Bebe’s murders. 

There was a beat of silence, clear hesitation to answer him before Kevin replied, “I think starting a fight just pushed us to the top of their list. Way to go, you guys.”

Stan turned around just in time to see Tolkien and Craig bristle at Kevin’s words.

“You were there, too, dickhead,”  Craig pointed out, his eyes narrowed with mild anger. 

Kevin crossed his arms, casting a pointed look at Tolkien. “Yeah, but I didn’t throw anyone into a bookshelf.” 

“Fuck you, Stoley.” Tolkien shot up from his chair, his voice teetering over the line of yelling. 

Stan’s heart skipped a beat as Kevin stood up as well, and he quickly followed suit, reaching out to place his hand on Tolkien’s shoulder. “Guys, guys–” He interjected, his eyes shifting between the three boys. “Don’t be stupid, alright? Fighting isn’t gonna bring Bebe back.” 

He let his words resonate, the bitter truth of them causing Tolkien and Kevin to reluctantly back down. 

“We all want someone to blame. Someone to be pissed at.” Stan continued, still keeping his voice quiet as he took his hand off of Tolkien’s shoulder. “But you guys can’t jump to conclusions. Not now. Especially not now. We lose our minds, and Clyde will spiral. He needs us right now.”

The mention of their traumatized friend seemed to have sparked guilt within the group, and Stan took in a quiet breath of relief. He hated watching them fight, hated bearing witness to their outlets of grief. 

Tolkien sat back down, shooting Kevin an apologetic look. He returned it with one of his own, a silent agreement to not lose their cool anymore. Not with each other. 

Tolkien stuffed his hands into the pockets of his varsity jacket. “...How do you guys think he’ll be tomorrow?” 

Craig huffed out a dry laugh, though his eyes held no sign of amusement. “What kind of question is that, dude? We’ll be lucky if he even talks to us in the morning.”

Stan shut his eyes as the events from the gym played back in his mind, against his will. He could feel every emotion that had surfaced in the moment, of which he’d long since repressed. His throat tingled with a sick feeling, and he swallowed it back down to avoid throwing up the fear broiling in his stomach. 

“We just have to be there for him. Any way we can.” He answered after a beat, forcing his eyes open to wash away the horrors hidden in his memory. 

The chatter of the surrounding students had gradually picked up again, filling in the silence that wafted between the group. Stan was thankful for the time being, but he wasn’t looking forward to the night.

The lockdown had lasted another three hours before the South Park PD deemed it safe to finally lift it, allowing students and teachers to reunite with their loved ones. Stan and Kyle had both exchanged their goodbyes with their friends, both giving and receiving promises to stay in touch more than usual. The lobby of the school was flooded with distressed parents hugging their kids like lifelines. It seemed like everywhere Stan looked, there was a family thankful to be in the presence of one another, and he couldn’t help the unwelcome, sour feeling that pierced through his chest.

He gripped the strap of his backpack a little tighter as he slowed to avoid hitting a girl who bounded across his path, into the arms of a man he could only assume was her father, meeting her halfway with glossy eyes. His teeth sunk into his cheek as he pushed past them, trying his damn hardest not to wish that were him. He knew his parents could care less about showing up, but this was much different. There was nothing like a tragedy so close to home that put their love to the test, and if it were possible, Stan’s parents had failed ten times over. 

He stood by the staircase in the middle of the lobby, staying as far out of everyone’s way as he could. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, clicking on Kyle’s contact and sending him a brief text asking where he was. He couldn’t believe that even after all of this, he still had to chauffeur his former best friend. But it wasn’t like he was in any rush to get home. He wasn’t wanted there, anyway.

He didn’t even get to put his phone down before a familiar figure appeared beside him, the aforementioned redhead awkwardly coming to a stop. 

Kyle’s brain seemed to short circuit upon seeing Stan’s dejected yet hardened expression. He couldn’t imagine what he was going through, even if they’d witnessed the same catastrophe. Stan and Bebe had been much closer than Kyle initially thought, which only added to the heavy weight of the situation. He didn’t miss the obvious absence of Stan’s parents, and the notion of the pair not bothering to comfort their son clearly got to the quarterback. He wouldn’t lie and deny that he wished his own parents were there; Kyle wanted nothing more than to hear his mother’s reassuring voice, listen to his father as he found a way to soothe his unshed tears. 

It killed him that neither of them knew what was going on back home. His hand subconsciously squeezed around his phone in his pocket, itching with the urge to call them. 

Stan had easily picked up on his inner turmoil, he knew that Kyle was fighting to say something. For a fraction of a moment, he wanted to give him the chance. But he knew it probably wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t need any more pity, especially from him. 

Instead, he fixed his eyes on the crowd ahead, looking away curtly. “Let’s go.”  

The quarterback began pushing his way through the sea of students, leaving Kyle behind to second guess his actions before following after him. 

The storm had eased up to a somewhat tolerable degree, but Stan still drove under the speed limit as he and Kyle peeled out of the parking lot, trying to keep in mind the amount of cop cars surrounding the school’s property. He doubted any of them would have the heart to issue him a ticket, but with everything else happening in this town, he was starting to believe that life was unpredictable.

The windshield wipers of the jeep squeaked as they pushed the raindrops off the glass, sending them flying onto the road and adding to the small puddles forming on the pavement. He didn’t bother messing with his radio, favoring the sound of the rumbling sky over any song on his playlist. 

Neither him nor Kyle ever said anything, neither of them feeling the need to talk when they were both feeling and thinking the same things. Kyle’s focus was directed at the passing trees and shrubbery as they drove, his fingers idly fidgeting with the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. He couldn’t decide if he preferred the quiet or not. On one hand, he was itching to talk about what Yates had told him, but on the other– it was Stan. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly shared something with the quarterback. Their friendship was anything but existent, and the silence between them served as a stark reminder.

A bout of lightning lit up the clouds for a long minute, followed by a rather loud crack of thunder. Stan was getting sick of it, sick of the weather, sick of every ounce of familiarity around him. His norm had been screwed beyond repair, and he couldn’t look at anything the same way again. Not even something as simple as the rain. 

Suddenly, a distinct pop ripped its way through the silence, drawing sharp gasps from both of their throats. Stan struggled to correct the steering wheel as he felt the jeep’s back tire dragging across the pavement. 

“What the hell–?!” He exclaimed, immediately pushing his foot against the brakes and veering off to the shoulder of the road.

Kyle was on full alert now, bracing his hand on the dashboard as the car came to an abrupt stop. He turned to Stan, his eyes widened with momentary panic. “What happened?!”

Stan shifted the gear and put the car in park, peering out through the side mirror. He couldn’t see much through the raindrops stuck to the glass, and he swore under his breath.

“Hold on,” He grumbled out, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the car. 

Kyle tossed his hands up with helpless frustration, the denial of an immediate answer heating up his veins. 

Stan slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the storm, using his jacket’s thick sleeve to shield his eyes from the falling rain. He rounded the back of the jeep, stopping near the rear left tire. It didn’t take him long to spot it, the bottom of the wheel completely flat against the ground. 

“Shit,” He murmured, barely able to hear his own voice over the thunder. He crouched down onto the ground, running his fingers up and down the sides of the tire to find a hole. But when he did, his eyebrows furrowed, laying his eyes on a thin gash in the rubber. 

He stood up straight, turning in the direction they came from and taking a few steps forward, his eyes skimming over the ground to spot anything he may have hit. But even with the streets flooding with water, nothing seemed out of place, nothing sharp enough to cause that kind of damage. 

He returned back to the jeep, pulling open the driver’s side door and pressing the lock for the trunk. He glanced up at Kyle. “Tire’s flat. I need to change it.”

“Are you kidding?” Kyle replied, his shoulders slumping with annoyance. “Can’t you just call a tow truck?”

“Why would I call a tow truck when I can just fix it myself?” Stan argued, narrowing his eyes as he sensed an oncoming fight. 

“Because you’re not a mechanic?” Kyle told him, as if it were as obvious as the color of the sky. 

Stan only rolled his eyes in response, not wanting to put up with his complaints. “Christ, Kyle, I know what I’m doing. I’m not an idiot.”

He shut the door again, this time with much more force as he quickly made his way to the trunk. 

“I beg to differ,” Kyle mumbled to himself, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in the seat. 

Stan’s hair was already growing damp as he grabbed the spare tire from the trunk, rolling it out onto the wet ground. He reached over and grabbed the wheel chocks and tire jack before slamming the lid closed again. 

Kyle, meanwhile, let out a long sigh as he took out his phone. He knew Ike would be back home by now, likely wondering where his brother was. He didn’t know how long it usually took to change a tire, but since it was Stan doing it, he figured he would give him three hours to be safe. If he was as good of a mechanic as he was a friend, then they were in deep shit. 

He began typing out a message to Ike, letting him know what was going on. Just then, Kyle’s eyes flickered up to the top of his screen as a new text appeared. Immediately, his stomach clenched with a now very familiar sense of shock. It only took him a second to read what it said, and who it was from. 

From: Scott: Fear brings out the worst in everyone, doesn’t it, Kyle? 

Kyle’s fingers darted across the screen, quickly abandoning his chat with Ike in favor of opening his messages with Scott’s contact. His lips fell agape as dread washed over him, his eyes scanning over the text again, and again, and again. He blinked a few times, trying to figure out if it was real. He’d seen a dead body today, trauma like that was bound to have some side effects. 

His head snapped up and faced the windows and windshield, frantically looking around as if he were going to spot Scott himself standing outside the car. 

His phone then vibrated in his hand, instantly drawing his eyes back to the screen. His breath hitched in his throat, feeling his heart sink further into his gut as he read another message. 

From: Scott: Fear prompts people to make rash decisions, even if it means hurting the ones they love. 

Kyle’s eyebrows pinched together so tightly it almost hurt. 

From: Scott: I know your secret, Kyle. Now let me tell you mine. 

His heart nearly leapt out of his throat. Secret? What secret? What the hell were they talking about? Was this really happening? Kyle could feel himself start to spiral, and his control over his mind and emotions was slipping through his fingers. 

From: Scott: You can’t protect your friends if you can’t even tell the truth. 

His chest heaved up and down with sharp, weighted pants, and he picked his head up again, his widened gaze jumping between the windows around him. His stomach lurched at the idea of being watched, the forest surrounding the road too thick to see through. 

Stan let out a grunt as he repeatedly yanked the wrench towards him, tightening the bolts on the wheel cover and following a star pattern. If Randy ever taught him anything useful, it was knowing his vehicles. Too bad he isn’t here to see it, Stan thought to himself. 

When he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, he let out a faint groan of irritation, pausing his work to remove it from his jacket. He wondered if his friends were checking in on him, as per their own promises before leaving the school. 

But when Stan’s eyes fell over the screen, his grip on the wrench slipped, and the tool clattered loudly onto the wet road, echoing in his ears. 

From: Malkinson: I know your secret, Stan. Now let me tell you mine. 

Stan shot to his feet, an involuntary chill curling across his shoulders, rivaling the cold temperature of the rain. He didn’t take his gaze off the screen, not even as another text rolled through. 

From: Malkinson: You can’t protect your friends if you can’t even tell the truth. 

Pure horror embedded itself into his veins, a daunting realization bleeding into his thoughts. Stan turned to the flat tire discarded on the ground next to the trunk, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. It was too perfect a timing, he knew it. The notion bounced around in his mind; whoever was doing this, whoever killed Bebe, whoever was taunting him with Scott’s number — they were here. They had to be.

Stan pivoted on his heels and faced the woods across the street, his heart rate skyrocketing as he tried to distinguish shapes in the darkness. He was so focused on finding the stranger, he didn’t hear the car door closing, Kyle clambering out of the vehicle.

“Stan!” He called, briefly ripping the quarterback out of his panic. Kyle rushed around the car and met him on the other side, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. “We need to get out of here, now.” 

Stan swallowed thickly, forcing himself to calm down. He had no plans to argue with that, but he couldn’t let Kyle know his reason. He had to keep up his usual demeanor, even if he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. 

“Why?” He asked, shutting off his phone and turning it away from Kyle’s view. “I’m almost done, dude, just wait in the car—“

“No! I have to get home, now!” Kyle exclaimed, praying that his fear wasn’t too obvious in his eyes. 

Stan’s expression faltered at the tone of his voice, the look in Kyle’s eyes doing nothing to snuff the flames of his fear. But before he could respond, both of their phones vibrated and lit up as a notification came through. However, neither of them were fast enough to shift away from the other’s line of sight, and all hell broke loose. 

Stan’s eyes caught Kyle’s screen, and he felt something within him suddenly shatter. A deep, guttural sort of shock settled in his chest, and he could almost feel the color draining from his face. 

From: Scott: See you soon.  

He stared at Kyle, his hands threatening to shake. “…Why the hell are you getting calls from Scott?” 

Kyle’s eyes immediately met his face, his own look of surprise quickly replaced by confusion. “Calls?” He parroted, his eyebrows creasing. “I didn’t— I only got a text.” 

Stan panicked. Shit. “…That’s what I said-”

“No, you— you said calls.” Kyle reiterated. “Are you getting calls from Scott, too?”

“…Wait, what the hell do you mean, too?” Stan looked more confused than Kyle. 

Kyle carded a hand through his hair, gripping the strands and pulling softly as he felt his world crashing down around him. What the fuck? 

“Kyle?!” Stan shouted, his voice rising with full-blown panic. 

Kyle pocketed his phone. “We don’t have time for this Stan, we need to get out of here! Is the car ready or not?!”

“Fucking— yes, it’s ready, but— Kyle!” Stan yelled after him as the redhead then spun around and hurried back into the jeep. He followed after him. “Are we seriously not going to—“

“Just get in!” Kyle demanded, slamming the door closed. 

Stan let out a noise of confused desperation, but he didn’t linger in the rain any further. He all but threw himself into the driver’s seat, not even bothering to pick up his wrench and withered tire still laying in the street. 

If the silence between them after leaving the school was heavy, Stan had no fucking idea what this was. His heart rate only seemed to pick up faster and faster the more time passed where they didn’t address what had just happened. 

His grip on the steering wheel was so tight he could barely feel his fingers, his knuckles fading white from the force of his muscles. He spared the redhead next to him countless amounts of glances on their drive, but not once did Kyle speak up or look back at him. The closer they got to his house, Stan began to realize he wouldn’t have a chance to talk about it. Not without going out of his way. 

The panic and fear was still very much fresh and present at the forefront of his mind, and the fact that he and Kyle shared the dread from the same threat was a twist he never would have expected. No way were they sweeping this under the rug. This wasn’t a regular argument. This was something else entirely. 

So, making an impulsive choice, Stan flicked off his turn signal leading to Kyle’s neighborhood and instead floored the gas pedal, his hold on the wheel tightening even further. That seemed to catch Kyle’s attention, his body perking up and watching as Stan purposely missed the turn. 

Stan swerved the jeep into the parking lot of a shopping center just down the road, ignoring the angry honking of an old woman he’d cut off from the turning lane. The last thing he cared about was the rules of the road; his mind was running a million miles a minute, and if he didn’t address it, he would explode. 

He hit the brakes in the closest spot he could find, immediately shifting the car into park and shutting off the engine. 

Kyle finally turned to him, a hint of hesitation seeping through his annoyed expression. “What the fuck are we doing here?” 

“I’m not taking you home until you tell me the truth.” Stan answered, bristling when it wasn’t obvious that Kyle even wanted to talk about their situation. “Why are you getting calls from Scott Malkinson?”

“This is kidnapping,” Kyle pointed out. “You’re kidnapping me.” 

Stan cringed. “Shut the fuck up, dude, this is not a kidnapping—“ 

“Taking me against my will to an unknown secondary location?! This is literally a kidnapping!”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, tiredly. “...Kyle, we are sitting in the middle of a Walmart parking lot.” 

Kyle let out an angry growl, crossing his arms and slumping back against the seat, feeling defeated. 

“Why are you getting calls from Scott Malkinson?!”

“I don’t know, okay?!” Kyle yelled, lapsing into brief silence at the tone of his own voice. He didn’t quite know what he was doing, what was going on, his brain refusing to process that Stan, of all people, was also getting calls from Scott’s phone. 

Letting out a resigned sigh, Kyle opened up. “…They started the day Principal Victoria told us he was missing.”

Stan finally loosened his grip on the wheel. “Me too.”

Kyle turned to him, unsure of what to say next. 

“The first time. Someone called you from his number, but all you heard was breathing. Right?” Stan asked.

Kyle’s stare turned skeptical. “…Right.”

“And the second time. They talked to you, right?”

“Yeah. How did you—“

“Because the same thing happened to me.” Stan admitted, almost unbelieving of the words himself. 

Silence fell over the car. They hated how familiar it was becoming. Kyle faced forward again, wrapping his head around the new revelation. 

“…Okay. Okay, so… someone with our dead friend’s phone is harassing us.” He concluded. 

“…Yeah.” Stan breathed, nodding his head. Then, he turned to Kyle. “When they called you the second time, what did they say to you?”

Kyle opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He weighed his options. Should he really be telling Stan everything he knew? It didn’t even matter, he was desperate for answers, too. And now that he knew Stan was getting those same calls, maybe he could finally get them. 

“They— called me at Tolkien’s party. I was taking a walk while… crying, and— they saw me. Asked why.” 

“Is that all?” Stan asked, ignoring the fact that Kyle admitted to crying at Tolkien’s party. The last time he saw Kyle that night was when he kicked him out of the spare bedroom, Stan remembered that Kyle was already upset when he walked in. The urge to ask for elaboration almost escaped him, but he held it back in favor of realizing Scott’s killer may have been at Tolkien’s house that night. 

Kyle shook his head, recalling the bad memory. “I asked who they were and they said, um… that they were someone who ‘knows what goes on behind closed doors’.” 

Stan nodded along. “What else?”

“…They said that.. they don’t like what they see,” Kyle explained. “A-And that they’re going to stop it. Whatever that means.” 

Stan tapped his fingers across his steering wheel in thought. His mind immediately ran over all the things he’d done in the last week, and the thought of admitting to any of it was nearly enough to send him running for the hills. So, he decided to stretch the truth a little. He didn’t know if he could fully trust Kyle yet. Let alone trust him at all. 

“They called me to tell me that my actions have consequences.” A half truth. Stan just left out the part about the stranger threatening to pick off everyone around him. 

Kyle threw his arms up, letting them fall over his lap in a burst of rage. “Oh, well lucky fucking you! I get stalked and threatened and you get a life lesson, how the fuck is that fair?!”

Stan’s eyes narrowed with the same feeling. “Hey, nothing about this is fair, alright?! I mean why the hell are they calling us two in the first place?!”

“You’re asking me that like I’m supposed to know!” Kyle snapped.

“Well I would at least expect you to have a fucking theory!?” Stan argued. 

“Well I don’t!” Kyle shut him down almost immediately. “Okay, I am just as confused as you are!”

Stan opened his mouth to yell back at him, when his eyes caught a couple walking in front of their car. He quickly shut it and averted his gaze, trying to appear nonchalant until they passed. He took the moment to force the heat of his fury down to a simmer, brushing a hand over his hair.

“…What the hell do we do, dude?” He asked, his voice low and twinged with exhausted puzzlement. 

“I don’t know.” Kyle murmured back. He leaned his elbow against the sill of the door, bringing his fingers up to press against his temples. He then spoke up again, his voice trembling.

“Do you think that— that the person who’s harassing us is—“

“—is the same person who killed Scott and Bebe?” Stan finished, locking eyes with the other boy. “…Yeah. I do.” 

The redhead sighed, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. “Shit.”

Of course, Stan had better reasoning for his theory. He would even go as far as to say he had clear evidence that that was true. But, Kyle couldn’t know about that.

“Did you tell anyone about this?” He questioned. 

Kyle hesitated with his answer. “…Just Kenny.” 

Stan opened his mouth to protest, but Kyle beat him to it. 

“He won’t say anything.” He promised. 

Stan stilled, unconvinced. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because he already thinks I told the cops.” Kyle said, much to the quarterback’s surprise. “He made me promise to, but— I-I didn’t. But he doesn’t know that.” 

Stan slumped forward with slight relief. “Good. The cops can’t know. If they find out, we’ll be under twenty-four hour surveillance until this thing is actually solved.” 

“So, what, we just— keep this to ourselves? Try not to flinch every time we get a phone call?” Kyle asked, shaking his head with clear disapproval. 

“If that’s what it takes to stay off Yates’ radar, then yeah.” Stan shrugged one of his shoulders. “We just… have to keep acting normal.” 

“But— w-we can tell each other, right?” Kyle asked, reluctantly. “Because I will lose my mind if I can’t talk about this to someone.”

Stan mulled this over, glancing at Kyle through his peripheral vision. “…Sure. Whatever, just— no one else. Got it?”

“Got it.” Kyle responded quickly, nodding softly. “Now take me home.”

Stan didn’t say anything in reply. He looked away from Kyle, turning his keys in the ignition until the engine started up again. The windshield wipers went back to work, ridding the glass of water while the rain continued pouring from the sky. 

There was that silence again, though it seemed calmer than it usually was. Neither of them spoke, but Stan didn’t care, finally satisfied with their secrets. He knew he should probably come clean to Kyle about Scott’s truck, about the call from Bebe’s number he’d received just hours earlier; but his conscience kept a lid on his truth, unable to bring the words to light. 

Stan cast a final glance towards Kyle, his chest sparking with a feeling he hadn’t welcomed since middle school. He didn’t want to think about the implications of this, but it was obvious that their situation had just taken a sharp turn.

For worse, or for better, he was going to find out.

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.