Chapter Text
Kenny hums idly to himself and drums a beat on the handle of the shopping cart as he moves through Wall-mart. Warmth ghosts his cheeks when he gets to the kid’s section.
It’s been a few weeks since Kyle first proposed age regression to he and Stan. He still hasn’t tried it, but he’s tended to Stan twice alone and once with Kyle since the first time. The three boys have gotten closer than they thought possible as a result. It goes unspoken, but there is a new, deeper understanding that they all have of each other, and none of them doubt that it can go further.
Through mostly trial and error, Kyle and Kenny have learned Stan’s wants and needs when in headspace. They discuss their findings with Stan when he’s in his usual headspace to determine limits and boundaries. For example, little Stan doesn’t understand how to drink from a cup, but big Stan has no desire to use a sippy cup. So, they find the middle ground; a Minecraft water bottle with a lid and straw.
That’s why Kenny’s at Wall-mart in the first place. They determined that little Stan just can’t be entertained by things on the screen for too long. Video games and movies for the duration of his headspace always end in migraines and tears. He doesn’t like to draw very much either, preferring to create confetti out of the crayon wrappers and drawing paper.
Tangible, tactile things, on the other hand, little Stan loves. Kenny offered him his fidget cube one of the times he was caregiving solo, and has yet to get it back. Stan keeps a death grip on it in headspace and makes bashful excuses to keep it in his possession outside of headspace.
So, Kenny’s on a hunt for toys. He has a budget of $50, as Stan gave Kenny a 20 dollar bill when he proposed the idea of toy shopping. Kyle coughed up $15 once Stan left the room and Kenny agreed he’d throw in $15 too. Stan had only requested a couple fidget toys and things of that nature, but his caregivers had other ideas.
Kenny loads the cart with a few toy cars, a stuffed dog that looks a lot like Sparky, and a plethora of cheap fidget toys. He caves and grabs a baby teething toy on his way to checkout, too. If Stan doesn’t want it, oh well.
His phone buzzes as he pushes his cart out to the truck. He fumbles around in the oddly-deep pockets of his cargo pants before digging his phone out, answering Kyle’s call.
“Jimbo’s whore house, how may I direct your call?” He asks in a faux-professional manner.
“Where are you?” Kyle barks, tone urgent.
“Uh, leaving Wall-mart, why?” Kenny says, confused but not yet worried as he loads his truck up.
“I need you to come home, Ken. Like, right now,” Kyle says, allowing no room for argument.
“Yeah, I’m heading home now. What’s wrong?” Kenny slams his back door shut and strolls across the street to put the cart in a corral.
“You fucking rat,” A voice sneers.
Kenny whips around from the newly-abandoned cart.
“Look, just trust me, okay? I need you to come home,” Kyle says, but Kenny doesn’t hear him.
“What are you doing here?” Kenny asks the man in front of him, tone surprisingly even.
Kyle yells various words into the phone, but Kenny can’t afford to pay them any mind right now. He simply hangs up and tucks his phone back in his pocket.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m here for,” His father growls, stalking closer.
Kenny tenses, taking a step back. His brain reverts to the constant feeling of fight or flight he experienced as a child. He surveys his father’s form, noting that he doesn’t see any weapons.
“Just leave me alone,” Kenny pleads, cornering himself against the row of carts.
Stuart grunts in response, grabbing Kenny’s shoulders.
Kenny feels his blood run cold at the contact, the smell of alcohol invading his nose and making his eyes water. He observes his father’s bloodshot eyes and dirty face and clothes. He’s been on the run, it seems.
“You took them from me, bitch,” Stuart slurs, sending spit flying from his mouth onto Kenny’s cheeks.
Kenny turns his face away to try escaping the spit, the smell, everything. He wants to scream but can’t remember how. He can hear sirens in the distance, though. Kyle must have called the cops.
“No,” Kenny croaks, because that’s all he can manage. He can feel every scratch and bruise he ever sustained from the man in front of him aching, every defense mechanism and seemingly innate feeling of fear resurfacing.
“Bullshit, Kenny! You fucking ratted on me and turned me in, you little bastard! You took them from me!” He screams, one fist leaving Kenny’s shoulder to collide with his cheek instead.
Kenny stumbles to the side and grabs his cheek. The adrenaline racing through his veins keeps him from experiencing any real pain, but the harsh punch disorients him nonetheless.
He feels a pinching in his scalp when a hand yanks his head up by the hair.
“No-” slap to the face “I’m sorry-” kick to the shin “please, stop!” knee to the gut.
Kenny drops to his knees when Stuart is yanked off of him, but only for a second before he’s scrambling to his feet to get to his truck.
“Can you drive, poor boy?” Cartman’s obnoxious but situationally welcomed voice calls from somewhere.
Kenny whips around once he reaches his truck. He sees Cartman, sociopathic bully turned asshole Denver sheriff, pinning his father against a cop car.
Kenny nods mutely, staring on in shock.
“Then get the fuck out of here!”
Kenny complies as quickly as he can, squealing out of the lot and towards his home as fast as the truck will take him.
The drive goes by in a blur and by the time he gets home, he’s almost entirely unaware of his surroundings. He has tunnel vision and can only process one word in his own mind, the mantra that got him through the drive home, the mantra that got him through his childhood.
Safety. Safety. Safety.
That’s the word that sends him jumping out of his truck and sprinting into the apartment building. The sheer idea of safety is what has him shoving past Kyle on the staircase to get to their apartment door, sliding between Stan and the doorframe to get into the apartment, and tripping into the bedroom.
He doesn’t know much about his surroundings, but he knows where to hide. He tucks himself inside the closet, in the deepest corner, and wrenches the door shut. He nestles in the dirty clothes left on the ground and trembles.
“Dude, where is he? Cartman got Stuart to the station,” Kyle asks Stan at the front door.
“Did he push past you without saying a word too?” Stan responds.
“Yeah, this can’t be good,” Kyle huffs, stomping into the apartment.
“I think he went to the room,” Stan says softly after locking the door.
He leads Kyle down the hall and into the bedroom, breath catching in his throat at the sight of closed closet doors.
He points the observation out to Kyle, whispering as quietly as possible that the doors weren’t closed before. Kyle remembers the same thing as Stan based on the tears that begin to spill silently.
When they both settle on the floor outside the closet, they can hear Kenny’s teeth chattering and the slightest rustling from how hard his body shakes.
“Kenny, you don’t have to hide in there. He’s going back to jail,” Kyle says gently around the lump in his throat.
There’s no response other than the faintest of whimpers.
“Dude, it’s okay. You’re safe,” Stan says.
This earns a choked sob, but nothing else.
Kyle sighs and runs a hand over his face, crying freely now. Stan shuffles closer to the closet door, listening for anything he can use as leverage.
“You’re safe, honey,” He tries again.
Kenny’s breathing gets a little louder on the other side of the door before he squeaks, “Safe?”
Stan’s head snaps around to see Kyle noticed too. Kenny’s voice is… off.
“Yeah,” He continues, “you’re safe here, Ken. No one’s going to hurt you,” He hears Kenny shift and sniffle.
“Can you come out here?” Kyle asks softly, still holding eye contact with Stan.
They receive no response from Kenny.
“I’m going to open the door, dude, okay? Remember, it’s just Stan and Kyle out here,” Stan cautions, shifting closer and starting to ease the door open.
They hear shuffling and a strained whimper, but Stan gets the door open enough to see Kenny’s eyes peeking out from under a pile of clothes. There’s a small cut under one of them surrounded by a nasty bruise. His normally grayish blue eyes look neon from being bloodshot.
“Hi, dude,” Stan greets with a sad smile, leaning away from the door to sit back on his legs. Kyle shuffles a little closer.
“Hey, sweet boy, what’re you doing in there?” Kyle asks, still crying.
Kenny’s eyes move to Kyle’s face. His brows pinch upwards in either concern, confusion, or both, and tears stream down his cheeks.
“Kenny,” Stan starts, catching Kenny’s attention again, “you’re safe, now. You don’t have to hide like you used to,” He clears his throat when a lump forms, trying to remain strong for his friends.
Something akin to realization flashes in Kenny’s eyes and he sits up slightly, revealing the rest of the bruise on his cheek and a split lip.
“I ca- I can’t,” Kenny tries to say, lip shaking violently. His jaw opens and closes like he can’t find his words as tears continue to pour, small, choked sobs clawing their way out of his throat instead.
“Cartman took him to the station, honey,” Kyle whimpers out, “please, trust us,” He pleads.
Kenny visibly flinches at the mention of trust, “I do, don’t know, I-” He hiccups, chest heaving as his breathing increases.
“Kenny,” Stan says, “let us take care of you. You don’t need to fight anymore,” He holds a hand out, recalling the way Kyle offered him his palm and let him choose to touch it the first time he regressed. It had made him feel like he was in control and helped calm him.
Kenny stares at Stan’s hand, still breathing rapidly, and whines.
“I don’t feel right,” He manages, looking back into Stan's eyes.
“What made you go to the closet, angel?” Kyle answers, tone gentle and welcoming.
Kenny’s brows furrow in confusion and he hiccups again.
“You always hid in your closet as a kid, Ken. I think you're regressing as a trauma response rather than a coping mechanism, whether you realize it or not,” Kyle states, starting to get a grip on himself and rubbing away his tears.
Kenny’s eyes go wide for a second before he buries his face in his hands, another wave of sobs crashing down over him. This time, however, he’s wailing out “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” like his life depends on it. At one point, it did.
Both boys stare at what they can see of their friend, tears in their eyes. Kyle is at a loss for words, completely torn apart by the sight, but Stan has one last idea to get through.
He leans over to the crook in the wall where his guitar is propped and starts plucking idly, settling on a rather bland chord progression to get Kenny’s attention.
The boy in the closet stops yelling and lifts his head from his hands, but continues crying. He locks eyes with Stan.
He continues plucking at the strings, but slows down and plays quieter while he speaks.
“You always ask me to play for you after a bad dream, right? This was like a bad dream, Ken. It’s over now,” He soothes, wrapping up the melody and setting the guitar aside.
“Let us take care of you, honey, you don’t have to do it alone anymore,” Kyle sniffles, smiling sadly at the boy in the closet.
Kenny stares between the two boys, still crying softly. His split lip wobbles and bleeds as it must have opened while his face was buried in his hands.
“Let’s clean your cuts up, yeah? You always used to let us do that for you,” Kyle tries again, shifting slowly to not scare Kenny as he stands.
Kenny makes a small, squeaky hum of acknowledgment before simply holding his arms out in front of him.
Stan hoists Kenny up from under his armpits. Once they’re both standing, they just hug each other for a minute. Kenny’s arms are looped tightly around Stan’s neck, gripping his t-shirt like a lifeline. One of his legs dangles limply against the floor while the other shakes trying to hold his weight up.
Stan tightens his grip around Kenny’s torso, placing a soft kiss to the bruised cheek facing him. Kyle moves to stand beside Stan so Kenny can see him. He gingerly combs through blonde hair, staring into Kenny’s sad blue eyes.
“We’ve got you, angel,” He whispers, “Just let go,” He leans forward and presses a kiss to the blonde’s forehead, reveling in the small sigh he releases as his arms and legs finally go limp.
He pulls away as Stan adjusts his grip to carry Kenny bridal-style into the bathroom. Once there, Kyle turns the bathtub on while Stan seats Kenny on the toilet. The blonde slumps forward, face resting against Stan’s hip.
“Hey, honey, do you want to take a bath? You always wanted a bath after these fights as a kid, right?” Stan asks, carding his fingers through Kenny’s hair.
The blonde nods ever so slightly, a content hum falling from his throat.
His two friends start to move wordlessly, muscle memory seeming to take over. Stan pulls him up just enough for Kyle to work his pants and boxers off, waiting before setting him down to allow Kyle to put a towel over the cold toilet lid to avoid shocking Kenny. Once he’s sat again, Stan removes his shirt, placing it across his lap for modesty’s sake. Kenny doesn’t seem to mind either way, leaning limply against Stan’s hip and dazedly watching Kyle gather first aid supplies from under the sink. As long as Stan doesn’t stop playing with his hair and humming familiar soft rocks tunes, he’s totally fine.
Kyle comes back to the two with a wet, soapy washcloth and a dry washcloth.
“Tell me if it hurts too bad, okay?” Kyle asks as he kneels next to Kenny.
He feels overwhelmed with too many emotions to identify when Kenny just flashes him the softest of smiles and whispers, “Trust you,” against Stan’s shirt. The last time they were sat in this position, Kenny was completely nonverbal and barely clinging to consciousness. Both Stan and Kyle dreamt that he actually died that night for weeks after, but Kenny made a shockingly quick recovery. The cops had been called from Kenny’s neck of the woods when someone heard him scream, which was the final push that got Stuart arrested. The police urged Kenny to go to a hospital, but he declined and croaked Stan and Kyle’s names instead. He trusted them more than any doctor. They were always gentle with him.
Kyle wipes away dried blood from Kenny’s cheek and lip as carefully as he can before surveying the rest of his form. There’s an angry bruise on his shin and his ribs, but no more cuts to be found. He kisses the pads of his pointer and middle fingers, pressing them gently to both sites of warm, marred skin, just like he would when they were kids.
When Kyle looks up as confirmation that he’s done, Stan jumps back into action.
“Ready, hun?” He asks Kenny, receiving a slight nod. He hoists the blonde up, opting to just bridal carry him to the tub rather than drag his limp legs a few feet across the bathroom.
He lowers Kenny like he’s handling a glass sculpture, grinning when he goes to pull away but Kenny grips his sleeve.
The three are completely silent as they repeat old routines. Stan runs a washcloth across the blonde’s chest, up his arms, and across his back while Kyle washes his hair, gently massaging his scalp.
Once Kenny’s cleaned and rinsed, Kyle unplugs the drain and brings a towel over. He holds it open while Stan pulls Kenny from the tub, closing it around his body when Kenny is leaned against him. Stan takes their friend back once he’s wrapped up and picks him up like before, following Kyle out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
He sets Kenny on the bed, holding him up to lean against his chest. Kenny watches through half-lidded eyes as Kyle scurries around the room gathering clothes, but he’s noticing that only his clothes are being grabbed. That won’t work.
He pulls his head back a bit and reaches one arm up to tug at the hem of Stan’s shirt, simply whining because he either can’t remember how or is too tired to make his mouth form words. Stan looks down at him and chuckles, petting his hair steadily.
“What’s up, honey?” He asks as Kyle sets the clothes next to Kenny. They adjust him to start dressing him, but Kenny flinches away from Kyle’s hands when they move to bring a shirt over his head. He opens his mouth and whines again, tugging more insistently on Stan’s shirt.
“You want me to dress you?” Stan asks perplexedly. Kyle just watches on, trying to help decode the message.
Kenny huffs and tugs again, tears welling in his eyes as he realizes he can’t figure out how to talk even if he feels like it.
“Sh, sh, it’s okay, hun,” Kyle gently wipes a tear that escapes, “You want different clothes? Stan’s clothes? Is that it?”
Kenny nods and grabs Kyle’s sleeve, tugging like he was on Stan’s shirt.
“Our clothes,” Stan corrects, receiving a nod.
Kyle retrieves a new set of clothes consisting of his own fuzzy pants and one of Stan’s old hoodies. Kenny seems content with this arrangement and allows his friends to dress him with no further complaint.
Both boys have to admit that despite the situation, Kenny is quite adorable like this. He’s clingy and looks like he’s swimming in the fluffy pants and hoodie that dangle off his lithe frame. He almost looks like a kid again with the hood pulled over his head.
Once he’s dressed, they step back to admire their friend. Even bruised and distraught, he looks beautiful.
Kenny lets out a yawn and a whimper, lazily reaching and arm out to Stan to let him keep leaning against him. Stan complies with a chuckle, but Kenny is suddenly unaware of this when he watches Kyle leave the room.
“Ky!” A strangled yelp claws its way into the room, followed by a sharp sob. Stan’s grip tightens in surprise and Kyle comes barrelling back into the room, rushing forward to hush Kenny’s rejuvenated sobs.
“You’re okay, I’m right here, it’s okay,” He soothes like a mantra.
Kenny’s hand latches onto the collar of Kyle’s shirt as they stare at each other. Kenny’s sobs quiet but hushed whimpers and sniffles continue to escape.
“I’m sorry, honey, I was just getting you some water. Can I please go get you some water? You need to drink something,” Kyle pleads as he strokes Kenny’s hair.
Kenny hums a distressed “uh uh” and tries to tug Kyle closer.
“How about I bring you out there while he gets the water so you can keep an eye on him?” Stan asks, meeting Kenny’s wary eyes when they look up at him.
“It’ll be super fast, I promise,” Kyle adds, finally earning a pouty nod.
Stan scoops him up and follows Kyle to the kitchen then back to the bedroom, Kenny leaning contentedly against Stan’s chest the whole time. At some point, he pulled the strings of the hoodie to tighten around his face, mimicking the parka he wore as a child. He never took his eyes off Kyle, though.
They settle into bed after water has been gulped down by all three boys. Kyle climbs in first, lying on his side to face Kenny who is squished between him and Stan. Kenny shuffles closer and buries his face against Kyle’s shoulder while Stan wraps an arm around him, resting his hand on Kyle’s waist. Kyle brings a hand up to Kenny’s head and tucks it into the hood, massaging his scalp gently. He smiles at Stan when the action provokes a happy sigh. Stan smiles too, resting his chin atop Kenny’s head.
They’re unsure of how long they lay there before Kenny’s breathing evens out. By the time he’s asleep though, Stan and Kyle are both still wired.
“That was really hard,” Stan starts, his whisper coming out gravelly as he finally allows his tears to come.
“I know, sweetheart, but you did so good,” Kyle whispers back, briefly removing his hand from Kenny’s head to wipe away Stan’s tears.
“You did good, too,” Stan smiles sadly, “I know you thought that would be the last time you have to treat his wounds,”
“Yeah,” He trails off, leaning down to kiss Kenny’s head through the hood. He doesn’t want to think about that night, but it’s been in the back of his mind this whole time.
“Do you think he’ll be back to normal tomorrow?” Stan asks after a minute, still sniffling.
Kyle hums and furrows his brows, looking back up at Stan.
“Maybe,” He says, “When this kind of stuff is trauma-induced it can be harder to come out of, from what I’ve read,”
“I guess that makes sense,” Stan sighs.
Kenny takes a deep breath and stirs, turning on his back. The boys on either side of him adjust with him, making sure they’re still holding him securely. Whether they’re doing it for his comfort or their own, they don’t know.
“Oh, poor baby,” Kyle says sadly, “He’s got a cold sore,”
Stan sees the spot where Kenny’s cinched hood slipped down a little, revealing his top lip. There is indeed an angry reddish-yellow lump sitting proudly right on the crest of his mouth.
“He hates those things,” Stan frowns.
“I’ll get him more medicine before I come home from class tomorrow. I don’t know if he’s out or not, but he always loses the stupid little tubes,” Kyle sighs.
“Yeah, it’s safe to assume he lost the last one,” Stan agrees, chuckling lightly.
They fall into a comfortable silence for a while after that, broken only by Stan’s half-conscious admission of “I love you,” before falling asleep.
“I love you, too, Stanley,” Kyle smiles softly, eyes closed as he lets sleep take him too.