Chapter Text
Stan wakes up at five, as usual, and starts his morning routine with a sip of flat soda that he had left on his desk a few nights ago. He recalls Kenny's horrifying story about drinking a mouthful of ants after he forgot about a mug of lemonade for a few hours. Stan exhales sharply out his nose in lieu of a smile and advances undeterred down the stairs towards the kitchen. Swallowing ants, although it would most definitely change the course of his life, is the least of his problems.
Stan opens the freezer, digs around for something to eat, and pulls out a squashed box of toaster strudels that he vaguely remembers buying in March of last year. He hesitates, debating if it would taste gross, and eventually gives in when he reminds himself that germs don't like the cold (probably).
He pops two strudels into the toaster and prays that his father remembered to start the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. It's been about three days now. He peeks in out of curiosity only to find sauce-crusted plates and wine-stained glasses; thus, Stan approaches his first dilemma. Manually clean the dishes so he can have a plate, start the load and eat over the sink, or keep the game of chore chicken going...and eat over the sink. He lets his laziness be his guide as he quietly closes the dishwasher, pretending to have never seen the mess inside.
Stan stands blank-faced, staring out at the growing weed farm through the window above the sink as he chews thoughtfully on his toaster strudel. He shivers as he finishes his last bite, his feet numb from the cold linoleum tiles. South Park was snowy year-round, unfortunately for him. Winter is his least favourite season, a fact that he diligently spouts every August when teachers settle for an easy ice-breaker day, and today wasn't an exception.
Freshman year of high school. To some, it's a daunting reminder of the final years of youthful bliss. To Stan Marsh, it's a particular sort of retardation.
Stan goes up the stairs and detours to his father's bedroom. He peers in to make sure Randy hasn't died of alcohol poisoning and pulls the duvet over his limp body, reeking of Jack Daniels. Even though Stan silently hates his father for going through with the inevitable divorce, he still appreciates the back-breaking work he does to keep a roof over his head.
After staring pitifully at Randy for a few seconds, Stan beelines to his bathroom. As gross as he is, Stan never misses a shower.
While the water warms up, he glances at his reflection in dismay; gone were the days of perfect skin and silky hair. He misses when he could eat like shit and not have his body reflect it. Stan sighs as he notices a new blemish on his cheek. At the very least, he's glad his awkward body filled out. He flashes a toothy smile at himself and flexes his biceps. He wasn't a beefcake by any means, but he was toned enough for there to be eyes on him when he was shirtless.
He lets the water fall on him as he stands, naked as the day he came, thinking about Wendy Testaburger. Stan cringes, not wanting to deal with his unwitting relationship with her. It's mostly his fault for leading her on, that much he does know, but being Wendy's boyfriend was the last artefact of better times, and he isn't planning on ruining that too.
After bundling up and putting on his worn-out beanie, the same one he had worn throughout grade school, he returns downstairs.
The snow crunches against his feet as he begins his trek to the bus stop. Stan's stream of consciousness morphs into mental disarray as he isn't sure if he can keep this up much longer, the long, drawn-out days of solitude. Ever since he made the big move to support Tegridy Farms, he's been feeling more isolated than ever.
Stan wonders what the other boys are up to, if they have changed at all. As if on cue, he hears Kyle and Cartman arguing in the distance, with Kenny's contagious laughter resonating throughout the quiet town. He smiles to himself, reminiscing about all the albeit awful situations that he and his gang would get into. Stan marches forward and reaches the top of the small hill, where he can see the bright yellow sign and his old neighbourhood friends gathered around it.
Suddenly, Stan feels a wave of nausea roll through him. His palms get sweaty underneath his mittens, and his legs tremble slightly as he continues downhill. He hears Cartman shout something, followed by a chorus of laughter. Stan wishes he were back home.
"Marsh!" Kenny gleefully shouts, his blonde hair is styled into a mullet, and it appears he ditched the parka for an orange windbreaker. Stan waves awkwardly.
Kenny seems to have changed the most out of his crew. The piercings on his face glint in the sun, and Stan swears he sees a tongue ring on him, too. Very punk. Very Kenny.
"Hey, Stan!" Kyle announces as Stan halts to a stop, stationed between Cartman and Kenny.
"Hey," Stan greets back, taking the opportunity to study Kyle. He's grown a few inches since middle school and still sports his old green ushanka, tufts of wild, curly red hair peeking out from the edges.
Stan makes an effort not to acknowledge Cartman, who seems too absorbed in eating his chips to notice.
"I can't believe we're starting high school," Kyle sighs, "It felt like we were in fourth grade yesterday."
The boys hum in agreement, save for Stan. Time couldn't go any slower for him.
"You still with that Testaburger chick?" Kenny asks, slinging an arm around Stan. "I heard she got her titties done again; apparently, this time, they look fan-fucking-tastic."
Stan nods, offering a half-smile at Kenny's words. He didn't care for boobs. Kenny stares at him for an uncomfortable amount of time before Stan snaps at him.
"What?" He asks, blue eyes narrowing at the tall, lanky blonde.
"Nothing, man," Kenny says, eyes glinting with a certain madness. "Should've figured you still don't care about tits."
"Stan's a homo, that's why. How many times do we have to go over this?" Cartman chimes in, licking his fingers.
"I'm not a fucking homo," Stan grumbles as he shakes Kenny off of him.
"Even if you were a homo," Kyle teases, "I would still love you."
Stan rolls his eyes but feels a smile unfurling his lips at his words.
"I think that makes you the gayest one here," Stan bites back, to which Kyle flips him off in defeat.
The uncomfortable feeling weighing down his chest disappears for a few moments as the boys continue bickering, only for it to return when the bus rolls over the hill and hisses to a stop in front of him. He lingers behind as the others clamber onto the bus, their voices fading out of Stan's register.
He stands there for a few seconds, contemplating running away and out of this stupid town. A reoccurring, miserable feeling he's had ever since he can remember.
"Hey, kid, get on the damn bus!" The bus driver yells, snapping Stan out of his existential crisis.
He makes his way to the back and sits next to Kyle, who moved his backpack out of the way to make room for him.
"Dude, are you alright?" Kyle asks in a hushed voice, his breath tickling Stan's ear.
Stan nods, shifting his gaze to his hands. Was he alright? He had always been the silent, brooding type, most everyone in town had known that about him since third grade, but he began to worry that his nihilism was straying further and further away from being ironic.
'Marsh men drink away their emotions, dear.'
Stan hears his mother's bitter voice echoing in his head.
Whether it was meant to be taken as a warning or a statement of prophecy, Stan knows that the alcoholic gene runs paternally. He remembers seeing Randy black-out drunk on the porch steps for the first time, the terror that ran through his spine as he heard him gurgle from the vomit. He remembers feeling helpless as he called his mother, who lived two states away, in a panic. He remembers everything all too well.
The uncomfortable feeling in his chest is back tenfold, encasing his lungs with black tar.
Stan uses the excuse of being tired to shy away from the animated conversation the rest of his friends are engaged in, and no one seems to bat an eye. They were probably used to Stan dragging down the mood by now and learned to tune him out the same way he did with them.
He closes his eyes and hugs his backpack for the remainder of the bus ride, unaware of Kyle's watchful gaze on the back of his head.
The day passes by in a blur, and Stan manages to fly under the radar for most of it, until lunch, that is. Kyle pulls him by the arm to the table nearest to the double doors, where his friends were already seated, determined to revive Stan's mood.
"The fags are here," Cartman announces as the two seat themselves, earning scattered laughter from the table.
Stan bites his tongue, knowing that explaining the nuances of sexuality would do nothing but prove to Cartman's tiny brain that he was, in fact, a fag.
Kyle unabashedly chews him out instead, glancing nervously at Craig afterwards, who seems to take notice.
"I don't care if you guys call people fags," he says in his monotonous voice, "But if you were to call me or my boyfriend a fag, we'll break your face in."
Stan snorts, thinking back to grade school when Craig and Tweek were sworn enemies; their fight was one for the books. He remembers the snow mixed with fresh blood, creating a mixture that looked alarmingly like a 7/11 cherry slushie. He remembers Tweek's swollen, bruised face. He remembers Craig spitting on Tweek as he stood over him like he meant nothing. All is fair in love and war, or whatever that stupid adage is.
Stan sneaks a glance when Tweek walks into the cafeteria and gives Craig a loving kiss on the head. The boys groan in disgust, only to be silenced by Craig's powerful middle finger.
Stan wonders where the animosity had gone and when the affection had settled in, and he's ashamed to admit that things were much more interesting when Craig hated Tweek's guts.
"I can't believe we have homework on the first day of school," Kenny complains through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Like, damn bitch, acting like you don't have the whole year to assign us crap."
"I finished my homework during study hall," Stan says as he picks at his salad. "It's pretty easy if you're not retarded."
Kenny hurls a string of insults towards Stan as the rest of the table erupts in laughter. Stan smiles, his spirits lifted after shooting Kenny down.
It's a weird relationship, the one Stan had with his friends; every man for himself but in a not-so-serious-but-actually-very-serious way. The bell rings before Stan can analyse the freshman-year boys' dynamic.
Stan inwardly groans when he sees Wendy waiting by his locker and sends Kyle a pleading look to not leave him by himself. Kyle, however, wears a shit-eating grin as he disappears into the crowd of students.
"Hey Stan!" Wendy exclaims, attaching herself to Stan's arm. Stan tries to smile warmly down at her. "What's with the face?"
Stan feels his ears turning red from embarrassment.
"Nothing, babe. How are you?"
"Good; I think I've recruited enough people to be on my debate team this year," Wendy says, playing with a loose hem on Stan's shirt. "Kyle told me you've been acting weird today. What's up?"
Fucking Kyle fucking Broflovski.
"Nothing. Just first-day nerves, I guess. You were talking with Kyle?" Stan questions, trying not to sound too interested.
"Yeah, he pulled me aside, actually. You know, you're lucky to have such a good friend, Stan."
Stan nods.
"Um, I've gotta get to English," Stan trails off, staring at Wendy's Doc Martens.
"Of course! Well, if anything comes up, I'm here, okay?"
"Yeah."
As Wendy walks away, Stan lets out a breath that he didn't know he was holding.
He wonders if Craig and Tweek are better at carrying conversations and decides that, yes, that must be true because before they were lovers, or enemies for that matter, they were two bros attached at the hip.
Stan slips into his class and sits in the back. His mind wanders to Kyle. Something curious bubbles in the pit of his stomach: admiration? Affection? Sure, he was affectionate to Kyle; they were best friends. It seemed natural that he loved him.
They were just two bros, attached at the hip.