Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stan hadn’t been showing up to school recently — it almost seemed as if nobody else had noticed except Kyle. At times he felt like he was the only one that noticed anything at all; though after a long while, he’d come to the conclusion that maybe it was because nobody payed attention to Stan like Kyle did. Kenny had always been caught up in his own world — endlessly occupied, moving from girl to girl, so much so that Kyle was sure he wouldn’t even notice if one of them happened to drop dead right before his eyes, not that, that would ever happen but it was an ironic thought.

Then there was Cartman. He was one of those who didn’t really need to be explained — the guy was just a bit of a dick, and that was that. If Kyle could have it his way, then he’d have him sent off to some deserted island to be eaten alive by snakes in a heartbeat, but life had a habit of being cruel and unfair — meaning Cartman was still very much alive, and currently standing in front of the shorter ginger boy with a shit-eating grin on his stupid fat face.

“What do you want, fatass?” Kyle questioned, eyes narrowing with caution. Nothing good ever came from Cartman, even if he had matured ever so slightly over the years; though he and Kyle, despite being in the same friend group, shared an ongoing rivalry that had planted its’ roots back in the third grade.

“I’m not fat, Kahl, you stupid jew, but I’ve got this crazy idea,”

Kyle cut him off, holding a hand to his face. He didn’t feel like going on some mindless adventure today — the only thing on his mind was Stan, the notion of his absence eating at him. It’d been days since his last message, his last call, without even addressing his series of no-shows at school.

“Listen, the only thing I care about right now is getting school over with, so I can go to Stan’s house and ask where the fuck he’s been,” he snapped, putting a great deal of distance between himself and Cartman.

“Go talk to Butters — he’s the only person who puts up with your shit, God knows why.” he shot back, already moving away from him. Cartman’s antics could come later, before he made him late to his next class, God know’s what his Mom would say if he got another late detention.

The last period of the day was Math — Kyle had always been pretty good at it, but only because his parents were constantly on his back, pressuring him to succeed in everything he did; though clearly, it seemed, he had failed to do this as of late, since he was currently sporting the world’s worst friend award. What kind of person did that make him? Sat revising trigonometry instead of being concerned for his friends’ welfare… it made him sick to his stomach, a horrible swirling feeling that made him regret eating any of the nasty slop they served in the cafeteria.

Kyle longed to be that safe haven that Stan felt he could go to whenever there was a problem — a problem that felt too overwhelming for him to take on alone — but he just didn’t know how to tell him that. The words just never came out right, his body language was unpurposefully tense, and he felt totally unable to give Stan anything but a feeble pat on the back and some textbook advice as to why everything was just going to turn out alright in the end; that was all he could say, all there was to say.

He wanted his name to feel safe in Stan’s mouth, not for it to be sputtered out incoherently over the phone after a night of heavy drinking, tears as hot as the scorched earth he walked upon, his mind in a foggy haze. It was wrong. Kyle was all wrong.

If he couldn’t be a good best friend to Stan, than who was he at all? As dramatic and melancholy as it sounded, knowing that Stan had been absent from his life for two weeks, realising he had been left unaccounted for in his bedroom, slowly rotting away, no friend there by his side to say something that mattered, something meaningful that would actually make him feel even just the slightest bit better — it tugged at his heartstrings until he unconsciously slammed his math book closed with a loud smack.

In that moment, Mr Garrison stopped his rant about who had won last night’s Love Is blind and turned to look at him with a frustrated expression, like how dare Kyle disrupt whatever unimportant shit he was saying— he looked as though he might have said something though, called out in confusion, but it fell upon deaf ears as Kyle swept his books into his bag, swung it over his shoulder with a fervor, and stormed out of the classroom, slamming the door with little care behind him, fuck this stupid place, he didn’t care anymore.

Getting out of school was a simple task in of itself. The position of hall monitor had been completely barred ever since Cartman had somehow made the cut way back in fourth grade, though unsurprisingly he’d ended up taking the role way too seriously — and in the end, the same kind of twisted logic which put him in the position in the first place also led to the uncanny act of Mrs Stevenson, Ik’es Kindergarten teacher throwing herself off of some hotel roof.

Kyle knew there was a whole lot more behind that story, considering his younger brother was the main protagonist of it; but either way, he didn’t blame her. Cartman seemed to have that effect on people no matter what he did.

His hatred for the guy and worry for Stan had fueled his adrenaline enough that, by the time he had pushed through the sliding glass doors, he had broken into a full-on sprint to the bike racks. Surprisingly enough, in spite of his usually atrocious coordination, he didn’t trip up even once — maybe something was keeping him from failing.

He unlocked his bike from the rack and hopped onto the seat, ignoring the vibrations buzzing from his pocket as he pedaled top-speed down the drive and onto the relatively vacant main road. It was probably just a text from Kenny asking why he bunked out on class so randomly, after all, it was pretty unlike him, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes.

His legs had begun to ache by the time he’d rode past the bus stop — he couldn’t remember when or why he’d quit taking the bus. Maybe it was because, when he’d first begun high school, he’d liked riding his bike in the mornings, and Kenny— who can not afford a bike for the life of him — usually hitched a ride to school on his bike pegs. The added weight of a second person weighing him down had made him a regular target for Stan’s constant jokes, always “you’re not as fast as me dude” or “you’ve lost your touch”.

Even though it had only been two weeks, Kyle was missing these memories already, like they were nostalgic and shit, these thoughts spurred him on as he drove faster through the town, finally reaching their neighbourhood, passing Cartman’s house in stride, then his own.

Kyle brakes his bike so quickly he almost flies off the handle bars—breathing a sight of relief as he stables himself and hops off his bike, leaving it on the driveway to Stan’s house.

For the first time in his entire life, Kyle was nervous to knock on his best friend’s door, the house felt like it was looming over him, judging him for abandoning Stan when he had no one else, the groan of the wind was almost taunting as he brought his hand into a fist and knocked on the paint-chipped door.

It was Mrs Marsh who answered the door, looking as prim and proper as usual, her whole demeanour was such a huge contrast to her grotesque, childish husband. Yet the only thing the two seemed to have in common was that they were nothing like their son, who was the reason Kyle got out of bed in the morning most days, and the reason he was so willing to face the wrath of his mother tonight when she finds out he bunked out on school.

“Oh, Kyle, it’s you. Stan didn’t tell us we were having visitors.” she snapped, glare fixed on him like a laser sight. Kyle had no doubt in his mind that, even had Stan known about him coming, he wouldn’t have mentioned it to them in the first place — both of his parents were casually neglectful in the sense that they had left themselves so embroiled in their own issues that, had Stan dropped dead in the middle of the night in his own room, he thought, they still wouldn’tve found him.

“Yeah, I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Marsh, I just came in to check on Stan, that is, i-if you don’t mind,” Kyle asked, already feeling a lump forming in his throat and choking his words. Sharon Marsh was a well-kept, put-together fortress of a woman, resembling Kyle’s mother in ways he didn’t even think possible — though if one thing was for certain, it was that she certainly wouldn’t take kindly to ill-mannered youths interrupting her tight schedule.

She let out a sigh before stepping out of the way and opening the door wide enough for him to pass, and as he did, he felt the frame creak loudly as if it were on the brink of collapse; it was clear to see that the maintenance of their house wasn’t their first priority, and it had seen better days.

“Go on up.” Stan’s mother sighed, eyeing him with an exhaustion as he stepped into the corridor. Suffice to say, Kyle had been the favorite of her son’s friends, though she couldn’t help but notice that his appearances had become more and more infrequent by the week; perhaps something more was going on that she wasn’t privy to.

Kyle wasted no time in his objective, rushing past Stan’s mom and practically flinging himself up the stairs, stopping just short at the beaten white door ironically labelled “Gamer Zone — Do Not Enter.” Kyle had to hold back a snort, his eyes moving to the tattered wallpaper surrounding it held marks of old heights and spoke of coming-of-age, though it became clear that in the years after 6th grade, little had changed in that regard.

He hesitated briefly at the handle, embroiled both in what he would find inside, as well as the distraction that he made for himself; if he so much as brushed his finger across the ravaged surface of the door, he was bound to get a splinter or two. It made him wonder if there had been some kind of beavers living in the room beyond, slowly gnawing away at the surface of the door; though this clearly hadn’t been a problem for their friend group at all in the golden days, with the hinges being outlined in crayon and names dotted here and there. Some honourable mentions included, ‘Cartman wuz here’, ‘Coon and Friends rulez’ and ‘Stan and Wendy forever’.

Even just seeing an old mention of Stan and her was enough to send Kyle spiralling and catatonic; it’d been bad enough picking up the pieces of her emotional wreckage after she’d left Stan for the third time, let alone how often she used to disrespect him by weaselling her way back into his life again afterwards—it bothered Kyle that the thought of Wendy and Stan getting back together made him feel a twinge of something almost like jealousy.

But, he thought, that was a thought for another day. He had been stood here, at this door, for as long as he could remember — and so he was finished with second-guessing himself, grabbing at whatever courage he had left in his dampened mind and rapping on the door a few times.

Nothing.

“Why have you gotta make me do everything?” Kyle mumbled, hesitating briefly at the door before saying fuck it, grabbing onto the door handle with bitten fingernails and opening it himself.

Chapter Text

Kyle inched his way into the dumping ground that was his best friend’s bedroom. It felt almost ominous—Kyle could recall countless sleepovers, hangouts, game nights, the very same where their friends had left imprints in the carpet. The very same where Kyle had fallen asleep on the rug; and to see it looking so bland and abandoned felt blatantly wrong, made the clean freak in Kyle itch to rectify the buildup of depression which stuck to the walls.

At first, he’d been unable to tell if Stan was even in the room, considering how dark it was and the fact that he could barely see the floor—yet, through the scattered bottles of spirits laden across the ground, the piles of dirtied laundry and half-eaten food, Kyle could tell that this place had been lived in, albeit poorly. It was only by moving ever so slightly further into the gloom that he could discern a suspiciously Stan-shaped lump amongst the detritus, curled up in the sheets of his own mess.

“Stan?” He called into the darkness with a gentle soul’s whisper, half-damning himself for how vulnerable he’d let himself become.

And yet, nothing.

Kyle wasn’t surprised in the slightest, moving closer—albeit hesitantly—toward the bed, his heartbeat pumping so feverishly that he swore it was crawling from the very confines of his chest. What if he never wanted me to come over? What if not reaching out sooner had meant that Stan felt unwanted? The thought alone caused bile to rise into his throat a heavy sweat adorned his brow.

He waded through the garbage which soiled his feet, almost worrying that he’d catch some trash-borne trench foot, and knelt at the side of the bed. Stan, hardly peaceful and yet lost in sleep from the silence which entrapped them both in this drywall prison, made no move to speak. Kyle was about to turn and leave in frustration, but in turning his head, he could barely make out the whites of Stan’s eyes piercing through the darkness at him, wordless.

“S-shit Kyle, dude,” Stan muttered in a panicked tone. His voice was rough, even grating, as if he hadn’t had reason to use his voice for a long time. “When did you even-” Stan’s words fell silent before even reaching his larynx, upon which he fully took in the expression on his best friend’s sullied face. Kyle looked so distressed even just at the sight of Stan, his brows furrowing in despair. His dusk-laden hair grew thicker, wilder by the moment, it seemed, and he seemed somewhat possessed. His face grew pale and embalmed, as though some coroner had applied his last rites’ makeup, but failed to cover the death-telling eyebags he’d been sporting.

“Stan, Jesus! Are you okay? No one’s seen you in weeks,” He half-yelled, a pang of guilt lacing his words. “I thought you would’ve had half a mind to text me at least.” Kyle wavered momentarily, his gaze desperately searching for some other spectacle to look at other than Stan’s haunting form. Even just bearing witness to him made the guilt that had been gnawing at him for the past week flare up, eating at his flesh until there was nothing remaining save for raw, broken shame and unbridled agony.

“I’m fine—just not been feeling so good.” Stan managed to muster, tensing at the expression that Kyle offered him. He detected a certain softness in his tone, as though he looked at him with a little too much worry in his eyes—only serving to make him feel worse, stuck with the knowledge that he’d been causing his all-time favourite person so much unnecessary stress. Stan wanted to burrow back under the covers and hide away from all the problems he was causing for himself, all the people he’d loved; I mean, Jesus, even his Mom had stopped checking up on him at some point—like he’d somehow undergone some Kafkaesque transformation from beloved son to unlovable burden.

Stan was forced out of his self-deprecating reverie when Kyle’s voice cut sharply through the fog. “You don’t look fine.”

Resting his hand on his chin as he studied the inconsistencies in Stan’s expression, he could have counted easily a thousand different emotions—like grabbing at shards of wind in a whirlwind hurricane.

“Then stop looking.” Stan snapped, feeling a flicker of anger burning in his chest at the sudden invasion of his privacy. Yet when his eyes finally met Kyles—the anger was gone, only to be replaced by a raw feeling of guilt; mixing with the alcohol swirling in his gut. Stan was going to be sick.

Kyle looked startled and somewhat perplexed by Stan’s anger—as he shuffled back slightly trying to invoke some much-needed space, however, the softness never left his eyes as he spoke. “I'm sorry…Stan, I'm sorry.” He repeated, eyes travelling down to look somewhere other than his best friend's heavy-lidded eyes and instead falling to his own trembling hands. When did that happen?

He took a deep breath, trying to slow the tremoring of his fingers before continuing. “This…this is my fault. I should have been here sooner, I know that but I'm here now—so l-let me, let me help.” Kyle said, sounding almost like he was begging— it made Stan’s demeanour soften even if it was just for a second.

“It’s not…it’s not you.” He admitted, willing himself to sit up slightly his bones creaking like the hinges of a worn door that had been opened one to many time’s—yet Stan’s stayed firmly locked. “This is all me dude.”

Kyle shook his head in disagreement, unsure of what to say in that very moment. What was there to say? it was like all of the words had been stolen from his mouth. He spared a glance at the bomb site that is Stan’s room—to Kyle it was incomprehensible how anyone could even live in it. Just walking to Stan’s bed felt like wading through an ocean of unwashed clothes and empty beer bottles; he was also sure that the open pizza box on the dresser was one week away from growing its own fungal system.

This isn't normal.

This isn't how normal people live.