Work Text:
The world is dark and quiet outside of his open bedroom window, and the early morning breeze wafts frozen winter air through the screen. Outside, fresh snow blankets the earth, it's nearly three in the morning, and Kyle is on his third energy drink of the night.
Kyle has been always been prone to pulling all-nighters. He prides himself in being a good student, and he's on track for valedictorian, but he's also become a horrible procrastinator in his teenage years. As such, he's learned to tolerate the taste of Redbull.
He's got an essay due in second period, and midterms are coming up fast. Under the soft light of his desk lamp, Kyle's fingers tap away at his keyboard—more jumpy than usual—and he only has a paragraph left of Moby Dick: the Tragedy of Captain Ahab when his phone buzzes on his desk. He picks it up.
toolshed:
hey man u up ??
Kyle's heart skips a beat. He can't remember the last time Stan's ever texted him so late. He doesn't usually stay up past midnight. Kyle's thumbs hover anxiously over his keyboard.
Kyle:
Yeah, doing homework. What's up?
There is the briefest of pauses, but Kyle holds his breath anyway until three little dots appear.
toolshed:
im outsidr
Kyle blinks. He rereads the text several times. Stan's never been the best with spellcheck, but Kyle doesn't have to be a genius to know what he means.
Kyle hops to his feet, pulls the screen away from his open window, and leans outside. His bedroom window faces the neighboring house, but if he leans far enough, he can see the fresh prints in the snow in the front yard.
"Stan," Kyle hisses, his voice barely more than a breath.
No response.
"Goddamnit," he mutters, and then louder, "Stan."
There's a pause, and Kyle hears the familiar sound of sneakers on snow, and his best friend rounds the corner of the house. Kyle gets that funny little feeling in his chest he always gets when he sees Stan, and he watches the dark-haired boy crunch his way through the snow to stand underneath Kyle's open window.
Stan looks up, and Kyle looks down, and Stan is holding an open bottle of beer in his fist. "Christ," Kyle says under his breath. Stan's gait had looked slightly off. "Are you drunk?"
Stan instinctively puts his hands behind his back. "No," he says sheepishly, but a laugh escapes him regardless. "Are you gonna let me in?"
Kyle's mother is a light sleeper, and she would not be exactly thrilled to find out that Stan is drunk and visiting at three in the morning, so there's no chance of opening the front door. "Hold on," Kyle calls down. "Don't move."
Kyle makes for his closet and rumages through the top shelf. His fingers find his target, and he pulls down a wad of sheets and blankets knotted together. When they were kids, Kyle and Stan had each made makeshift rope ladders out of tattered sheets to be able to sneak into each other's rooms undetected. They'd never been caught.
Kyle returns to the window. Stan is still standing there patiently, taking a drink from his bottle and staring down at his phone. Kyle tosses one end of the rope out the window, and it smacks his unsuspecting friend in the face.
"Fuck," Stan lets out, and then he laughs again. "You still have this?"
"Shut up and climb," Kyle says. "You're gonna wake up the whole neighborhood."
Stan obediently does as told. He crams his phone in his jacket pocket and his bottle in the waistband of his jeans and grabs hold of the rope. He feels about ten times heavier than he had as a fourth grader, but Kyle manages to hold his ground as Stan scrambles up the sheets and hoists himself over the edge of the windowsill. He gives Kyle a goofy grin as he pulls his legs up and into the room. "Hi," he says.
"Hi," Kyle repeats, pulling the rope back into his room. He tosses it onto the floor, and asks, "What are you doing here?"
"Can't I just visit my best friend in the middle of the night?" Stan jokes, and he pulls his bottle out of his pants and takes a swig.
Kyle rolls his eyes, but when Stan moves his head back, Kyle catches a glimpse of black and blue, and he startles. "Holy shit," he says, grabbing Stan's jaw and moving his face into the light.
Stan's left eye is swollen, and his cheekbone underneath is bruised. His top lip is split and leaking blood, and his left temple is smeared with red. Stan frowns and can't meet Kyle's eyes.
"Dude," Kyle says softly. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Stan mumbles, and his tongue wets his lips. He thinks better of his answer before Kyle can reply, and he continues, "Randy found my Marlboros."
"Jesus Christ." Kyle realizes he's still holding Stan's face in his hands, and he abruptly drops his fingers to his sides. "The shithead beat you because of a pack of cigarettes? Is he insane?"
"You know how my fucking dad is," Stan says, anger in his voice as he flops down on Kyle's bed. "He's been insane since the day I was born. I guess he doesn't like knowing that I'm still playing with fire."
Kyle has nothing to say to that. He sits down beside his best friend, who still clutches the nearly empty beer bottle in his fist. "So he hates the cigs but could care less about the drinking?"
Stan shrugs, raising the bottle to his lips. "Maybe he thinks this is normal. And that I can't burn the house down with a bottle of Heineken."
"Fuck him, dude," Kyle says bitterly. "He sucks."
"Yeah." Stan sniffles, and he blinks and looks away. After a moment, he holds the bottle out to Kyle.
Kyle considers, and his essay crosses his mind very briefly, but he takes the bottle. "I'll kick his ass, too," Kyle continues. "He deserves to get beat, not you. You shouldn't have to take his shit. You deserve a whole lot better than this." He finishes the bottle in one swallow. Beer is not even close to his favorite beverage, but he likes sharing with Stan.
Kyle tosses the bottle in his wastebasket across the room as he thinks of something else to say. But when he turns back to his best friend, he finds himself mute, because Stan has begun to cry.
In all their years of friendship, Kyle has only seen Stan cry three times. Once, at his sister's funeral. Twice, at his mother's funeral. And thrice, right now: drunk, bloodied, and in Kyle's bedroom.
"Stan," Kyle says hesitantly. He doesn't know what to do as Stan heaves messy sobs into his hands. He isn't uncomfortable, but he's clueless, concerned, and feels a little like crying himself. Kyle gently puts a hand against Stan's shoulder, and Stan turns and folds into Kyle, pressing his face into Kyle's chest and bawling.
Kyle is surprised, but he puts his arms around his best friend and hugs him. He lays his cheek against Stan's mop of dark hair and whispers, "I'm so sorry."
They sit that way for what feels like hours, Kyle quietly whispering soothing words and running his fingers up and down Stan's back, Stan shaking and swearing and sobbing with his fingers gripping the back of Kyle's t-shirt. Kyle's heart aches, and he wishes there was something that he could do to take away his friend's pain. Stan didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of this.
Stan cries himself out, going limp in Kyle's firm embrace. He apologizes so many times, but he never makes a move to seperate himself from Kyle, and they hold each other for a small eternity. It makes Kyle's skin flush warm.
"I should go home," Stan mumbles into Kyle's chest.
Kyle is surprised with how desperate his own voice sounds. "You don't have to."
Stan slowly sits up, pushing away from Kyle, much to the redhead's disappointment. "You have homework to finish. I've already annoyed you enough."
"I don't give a fuck," Kyle says, a little too quickly. Stan's eyebrows furrow, and he pushes on. "I'm not letting you go back to that asshole you call a father tonight. Stay here."
"He'll be mad," Stan says, but he doesn't sound as if he cares.
"He can't do anything if you're not there," Kyle says with a shrug. "Just stay here. You can borrow clothes and drive with me to school in the morning."
Stan mulls over Kyle's words, and his mouth quirks into a smile. "You really want me to stay, huh?"
Heat enflames Kyle's cheeks, and he shoves Stan's shoulder. "Shut up, dickface. I don't care what you do."
Stan laughs and shoves him back.
Kyle lends Stan a loose sweatshirt and a pair of pyjama pants, and Stan sneaks across the hall to shower and change clothes. Kyle takes that brief time to rush out the rest of his essay, and he doesn't care if it sucks. He refuses to spend any more time on it. As long as he turns something in.
Stan comes back in the room as Kyle is shutting his laptop, toussling his hair dry with his towel. He still looks tired, but refreshed, and the blood has been washed from his face.
"You finished?" Stan asks as Kyle gets to his feet.
"Sort of," Kyle says with a shrug, stepping toward his bed. "I can turn it in, at least."
"Kyle Broflovski!" Stan says, surprised. "I can't remember you ever half-assing a homework assignment in your life."
Kyle shrugs again, even though Stan is right. He isn't really sure why he doesn't care. He pulls his t-shirt over his head and drops it on the floor as Stan collapses on his mattress. Kyle takes off his jeans and pulls on a pair of sweats and a cleaner shirt. Stan rolls onto his stomach and scrolls through his phone. They've been friends for so long and have had sleepovers so often that this ritual is natural.
Kyle picks up his phone from his desk and flops down on his back beside Stan. The room is silent, save for the sound of a video that will play once in a while from their phones. They are comfortable, and something about Stan being at his side makes Kyle feel even more relaxed than he could ever feel alone.
"Hey, Kyle?" Stan mumbles, not looking up from his phone.
"Yeah?" Kyle responds absentmindedly, typing a text to Kenny into his keyboard.
"I think I want to leave South Park."
The words draw Kyle's attention, and he looks over at Stan in surprise. "Really?"
"Yeah," Stan says, nodding his head. He drops his phone on the bed and rolls onto his back so that he is laying directly beside Kyle. "I want to leave. As soon as possible."
Kyle blinks as the words sink in, and dread begins to form in the pit of his stomach. "As soon as possible?"
Stan nods again, and he stares up at the stars on the ceiling. He had helped Kyle put those up when they were eleven. "It's not like I have to finish high school," Stan says, his thoughts forming aloud. "I have my own car, and I have some money saved. I could leave now, if I wanted."
Kyle's breath catches in his throat, and he feels like he is suffocating. "Now?"
"Yeah." Stan tilts his head to meet Kyle's eyes. "You should come with me. We can find an apartment together as far away as possible from this shithole mountain town. Maybe somewhere warm. Where snow doesn't exist."
Kyle's heart fills with yearning, but his head knows that this invitation is only fantasy. "As much as I would love to run away with you, dude, I can't leave Ike."
Rather than laughing like Kyle thought he would, Stan's expression turns thoughtful. "He can come too."
Kyle's eyebrows knit together, and he drops his phone on his stomach. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
Kyle stares at his best friend, and then he pushes himself up onto his elbows. "Stan, there's no fucking way. You don't make nearly enough money to get an apartment, and I don't even have a job. Plus, our whole lives are here. We can't just leave."
"You can get a job, and I can get a better job," Stan says, tucking his hands behind his head. "I'm thinking California. Would Ike like California?"
"Shut up, dumbass. We're not moving to California."
"Why not?"
"Because we're in fucking high school?" Kyle says incredulously, and he isn't sure why this conversation hurts him so much. "We have to graduate to get good jobs, dude. And I want to go to college. If I move out now, I'll be fifty, and all I'll have to show for my education will be a middle school diploma."
Stan rolls his eyes. "You're so dramatic. Why do you have to have your entire life planned out already? Just roll with the punches."
"I'm not like you, Stan," Kyle snaps. "I can't just up and leave. I have a family, and a future. It's not my problem if you don't."
The silence that fills the room seems to triple in size, and Kyle wishes he could take it back. If only he could un-say it. If only he could un-think it. But the damage has already been done, and Stan stares at Kyle for a long, lingering moment before he gets to his feet.
"Stan, wait," Kyle says weakly, sitting up.
"Fuck off, man," Stan spits, and he finds his shoes and shoves his feet into them. "I don't know why I thought you would ever get it. You've got this perfect fucking life with this perfect fucking future, and clearly, I'm not worth being in it anymore. My fucking bad."
"That's not—dude, I didn't mean it," Kyle says, and he hates the desperation in his voice. "I'm sorry."
"Don't tell me you're fucking sorry." Stan's voice rises, and he kicks his shoe at Kyle's bedroom wall. He leaves a scuff. "Don't be sorry that your life will always be a million times better than mine. You deserve that shit. I don't fucking care."
"Obviously you do fucking care," Kyle says lowly.
"Shut the fuck up. Let me out the window."
Kyle glares at his best friend. "No."
"Goddamnit. Let me out."
"No chance."
Stan meets his gaze, and in his eyes, his anger seems to mask something else. "Fine, then I'll jump, asshole."
Something inside of Kyle snaps, and he stands and stalks across his bedroom floor. His fists grab hold of the collar of Stan's shirt, and he drags the taller boy down to his level so that they are face-to-face. "Look, idiot," Kyle hisses. "I'm far from perfect, and you know it. You're about the only one who does know it. I'm sorry that I said your life sucks and you don't have shit. That was stupid of me. I really am sorry. But don't jump out my goddamn window because you're pissed at me. My mom would beat both our asses."
Stan tries his best to maintain his flat expression, but he smiles anyway. "Damn it. Fuck you, Kyle."
"Fuck you, dude. I can't believe you called me dramatic when you threatened to jump out of a window."
The smile drops from Stan's face, and Kyle doesn't let go of his shirt. They stand together, breathing hard, their noses only centimeters away from touching. Kyle searches his friend's eyes, and all he can see are a reflection of his own.
Stan's fingers find Kyle's face, and he closes the gap. Stan's lips are dry and cracked, and Kyle can taste the remnants of blood on the inside of his mouth. It doesn't feel like he's shaved in a few days, and Kyle knows he'll scratch his chin raw, but he can't find it in him to care. He shuts his eyes and pulls Stan closer.
The winter air makes Kyle shiver, but Stan's skin is hot against his own, and Kyle feels as warm as the summer days of his youth. When they come up for a breath, Kyle breathes out, "I was lying, anyway."
"What?" Stan's voice is hoarse.
"I was lying," Kyle repeats, his face so close to his best friend's that he can feel Stan's hot breath on his cheeks. "You don't have nothing. You have me."
Stan doesn't react for a long moment. "That is so goddamn cheesy," he says finally, and his lips connect with Kyle's once more.