Chapter Text
It was an awful habit, horrible, really. But Stan just couldn’t stop. The conscious admittance of his issue did nothing to combat the very real fact that he couldn’t stop. That drinking has become a daily thing, an expected (and frankly, looked forward to) aspect of his day to day life. Almost like brushing his teeth (though it would be a lie to say that his oral hygiene was top tier, most nights he went to sleep drunk and most days he woke up hungover, which didn’t leave much room for any sort of person care.) Which only reinforces the fact that Stan Marsh had a problem.
That the burn of alcohol had become as comforting as being held in the arms of a lover. That the turmoil in his stomach during particularly bad hangovers had grown to resemble the feeling one might get when they have a crush on someone.
And maybe he did.
Maybe Stan drank to feel things he’d never be able to feel sober.
He shook the uncomfortable idea out of his head, numbly glancing down at the empty bottle of Jameson in his hand.
When had he started drinking drinking such hard liquor? When did he move from sneaking a bottle of his dads beer to sip throughout the week to a fresh bottle of whisky every two days?
Maybe it was his final breakup with Wendy sometime in middle school that really did it. Maybe it was the realization that his heart would never love anyone like he loved her again. It was a juvenile love, they were in elementary school for chistsakes, but now he was in highschool and he can’t help but crave that feeling once more.
He shook the thought away again.
Stan really needed to stop drinking.
Idly, he pulled out his phone, flipping it around his hand for a moment before pressing the side button to turn it on. A photo of him, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman illuminated his lock screen, overlapped by the swoop of white numbers which read “23:35” and in smaller numbers “November 6.”
A brief memory of Kyle making fun of him for having military time on his phone flashed across his mind before fading to the more overpowering feeling of self loathing for getting so inebriated on a Wednesday night.
Usually he was better and not drinking on school nights. Usually he sipped a little, getting tipsy but not to the point where it secured himself a hellish hangover. But he slipped up tonight. He doesn’t even remember why.
Without much thought, he unlocked his phone, going to his messages and tapping on Kyle’s contact.
“Super Best Friend” the contact read, with a blurry circular photo of Kyle without a hat on, his hair a mess and face screwed in an angry expression. Their last conversation was last week. The words blurred too much on the screen for Stan to be able to read it, but he remembered it. Stan had skipped two days in a row last week because he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, much less shower or make himself presentable enough to go to school. Kyle was concerned. Stan was dismissive, and quite frankly, an asshole. They hadn’t talked much since.
Stan sloppily typed a message, hitting send before his brain could catch up. He imagined himself saying “I’m sorry Kyle, I know I’m bad, I’m trying to get better, I’m sorry.” But how much of that made it through was a mystery to him.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the side of his bed. He was acutely aware of how much the carpet in his room itched, how much the bed frame dug into his neck. How heavy his eyes felt as they slid shut into a drunken slumber. Then he was aware of nothing but a dull ache behind his eyes and an overwhelming and all encompassing weight all over.
—
“um soorrh kyje u jniw um nad um reting ro fet verrter. rim sorry”
Anger and concern flooded Kyles mind in equal amount as he read and reread the message from Stan. His friend was obviously drunk out of his fucking mind. And for that Kyle was pissed.
Why couldn’t he stop? Why was Stan so hellbent on fucking up his liver to the point of no return? On ruining his entire future? On ignoring everyone around him who cares about him so much.
Kyle shoved his phone in his pocket, slipped on a jacket and grabbed his keys off his nightstand. He hated driving at night, especially during winter, when black ice was lurking on asphalt waiting for someone, anyone, to launch off the side of the road into a bank of ice topped with a small layer of powdered snow. Kyle shuddered at the vivid imagery of the car crash and hurried out of his room before his mind had a chance to change.
He didn’t even bother texting Stan back. It would’ve been useless. Though, maybe this is useless too. Maybe no matter what he does, he’ll never get his friend back. Maybe Kyle should admit that Stan is a last cause. That “Super Best Friends” was a term they had long since grown out of, that they would never be able to return to the joys of childhood.
He pulled on his boots and locked the heavy door behind him.
The car was cold. Colder than the outside. Colder than the dread gripping his stomach as nostalgia took on a menacing form and threatened to bring tears from his eyes.
He turned the key in the ignition, his car quietly humming to life, cold air circulating from the defrosters and blowing directly into his worn face. Viciously rubbing his eyes with one hand, he tasked the other with turning down the air, not waiting for the heater to kick in before backing out of the driveway. Typically Kyle didn’t speed, usually his driving anxiety kept him at the speed limit, if not a bit below, but tonight he raced.
No music played, the only sounds being the soft hush of his air system, the soft grumble of his cold engine, unhappy at Kyle for disturbing its nightly hibernation. And, louder than that, his thoughts. The unsavory scenarios of what he’ll find at Stan’s house flashing ruthlessly across his mind.
He gripped the steering wheel, turning his fear into anger because that’s easier to manage. Because anger is easier to explain, easier to let out, it’s the easy thing to feel. Because fear has so many other emotions tied with it. Because admitting fear would be admitting that something is wrong, that his and Stan’s problems have grown and matured with them into something real, something life threatening and worthy of fear.
Yea, anger was easier.
He slowed to a stop outside of Stan’s house the front half of his car blocking the driveway, and got out.
The cold air immediately bit at his nose, wind whipping aggressively at his ginger curls. His jacket felt as useless as he did right now.
Taking a moment to steel himself, Kyle went up to the door, grabbing the hidden key and letting himself in.
The house was dark, quiet and unaware of the perils occurring in one of the small rooms upstairs. Kyle stomped the snow off his boots before hurrying into the house. A brief feeling of guilt crossed his mind as he became consciously aware of the dirt he was tracking into the house. But it was meaningless compared to the concer- anger he felt towards Stan.
The door to his room was slightly ajar, a crack of light peering into the hallway, it’s glow reminding Kyle of an optional side quest.
He pondered the consequences of turning around right now. Of exiting the house and getting to his car and going home and pretending like he never got the message at all. He felt ashamed for toying with the idea at all.
But the other option? Staying by Stan’s side through his inebriated and quite possibly gross state? Of holding his hair back while he vomited into a trash bin or a toilet or, if he was shitfaced enough, the floor? Of quite possibly making no difference in his health, or maybe even encouraging his behavior by caring? Of watching someone he’s known for years succumb to an illness unperceivable to the naked eye? Of watching his face grow hollow, his eye bags deepen, his life fade from his moving body. Because really, what fight could Kyle put up against something as omniscient as what was plaguing Stan? Who was he to think that he could help. That he could change anything. That he could leave any sort of impact.
He pushed the door open.
Immediately the smell of whiskey, sweat and something else indistinguishable assaulted his senses. Stan was slumped against the side of his bed, an empty bottle of Jameson resting on its side a few feet away from his hand. His eyes rested half closed, the bottom of his irises barely visible. His jaw was slack, lips parted only slightly.
He looked almost like he was…
Kyle furrowed his eyebrows and quickly crossed the threshold to be by Stan’s side.
“Stan? Stan, hey, wake up!” Kyle slapped the side of his friends face multiple times with enough force to elicit a resound sound, yet restraining himself from letting the anger take over and deliver any slaps with intense force.
“Mphguh,” Stan groaned, eyes darting quickly from side to side as he slowly drifted into full consciousness.
“There you are buddy, c’mon sit up,” it took an unreasonable amount of effort to keep his tone calm and level.
He wanted to be angry. He wanted to scream at Stan for letting himself go. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Maybe it was the deep sorrow swimming in the visible bits of Stan’s eyes that doused the flickering flame of anger stretching from Kyle’s heart and licking his ribcage with tendrils of anxiety.
A gurgle sounded at the back of Stan’s throat, giving Kyle only a moment to reach for the waste bin nestled in the cranny between Stan’s bed and the desk askew with papers of unknown origin (maybe schoolwork, maybe lyrics to songs that had been discarded in a fit of creative frustration). He held the cold, blue tin lined with an empty grocery bag beneath Stan’s chin and resigned himself to rubbing circles on his friends back.
Ignoring what Stan was doing, Kyle busied himself with staring at the wall of the room. He wondered faintly when the posters had changed from trivial video games and movies to edgy bands with morbid makeup and hardly legible names.
That’s just growing up, he supposes.
“Mmn soo -orry,” Stan moaned, hardly able to hold his head up from falling into the now soiled waste bin.
It was a sorry sight. Stan looked disgusting. Snot leaked freely from his nostrils, an obvious indicator of his illness. That and the quickly drying bile on the corners of his mouth. Gross. Kyle set the bin down on the opposite side of Stan, then grabbed the box of tissues from his nightstand, wiping at his face without much concern for being gentle.
He remained quiet, he wasn’t sure if he could open his mouth without screaming obscenity’s.
“Owwhh, you hate mue,” Stan moaned, sloppily pulling himself away from the tissues
His words and movements were slow, as though he was stuck in some sort of lapse in reality, between frozen in the moment and the time everyone else was living in.
“I don’t fucking hate you, dumbass,” Kyle felt the need to defend himself, “It’s just. I hate,”
He began to feel his throat close up, choking on and yet somehow unable to find the perfect words to describe the anger and hatred he feels towards the addiction that took his Super Best Friend away from him.
“I hate this shit,” he settled on, gesturing to the forgotten bottle of Jameson.
He felt a weird sort of shared experience with the bottle, they’d both been discarded by Stan. Laying just out of his conscious priorities. Right there, so close, so present, and yet. Nothing.
“Kyleee,” Stan droned, leaning towards his friend. Tears were visibly welling in his eyes. On the brink of a complete breakdown, “I don’ wanna feel anymore.”
And maybe it was those words. Maybe it was the way Stan looked into Kyles eyes with such sincerity while declaring something with implications his drunken mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Maybe it was the tears which, at that moment, exploded from Stan’s eyes with such harsh and real sobs that came directly from his core and tore out his throat with the promise of rawness the next morning. Maybe it was the way that Kyle knew what Stan was saying, that he had thought those exact words continually while laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, sleep just out of his grasp. But he couldn’t take it anymore.
He clenched his jaw shut, a frown bearing deep on his face, eyebrows twitching between sadness and rage but ultimately settling on some odd blend of the two, trying his damness to not cry. To not release what he’s tried so hard to deny for so long.
“Please, make it stop,” Stan begged, tugging at the collar of Kyle’s shirt, “I can’t take it, it hurts.”
“Maybe if you didn’t drink so fucking much that wouldn’t be a problem,” Kyle flinched at the harshness of his own words, he immediately recognized it as a mistake. A lapse in his control.
Stan froze, his chest heaving with sobs he felt to afraid to let reach full volume. It felt like a hiccup, uncontrollable and painful and embarrassing and suddenly everything felt real and he felt far too sober for this and He Really Needed a Drink.
Kyle slapped Stan’s hand as soon as it started wandering to the bottle of Jameson.
Stan sluggishly drew his hand into his chest, still stuck in the same warp in time, his face akin to that of a kicked puppy’s. He sniffed once.
Kyle passed him another tissue, keeping his head turned away.
“Dude you really need to stop.”
“I know,” Stan said, blowing his nose.
“You’re killing yourself.”
“I know.”
“So why don’t you just stop it?” Kyle’s tone was incredulous. Really, it should be easy. Like any other bad habit. Just stop.
Kyle remembered when his mom rubbed lemon rinds on his fingertips to keep him from biting at his nails. Remembered how the first day of this treatment he detested the sour and bitter taste. How quickly he stopped.
He looked down at his hands, fingernails short and uneven with bite marks.
“I can’t,” Stan admitted, a gaping hole in his chest opening wide and threatening to swallow him and Kyle and everything else in the world into an endless void of perfect wrongness. Tears were still falling from his eyes, chest still hurting from the constant stifled heaves of sobs. His midsection swirled with unease and anxiety, and he quickly ducked his head back into the waste bin.
Kyle sighed, deep and true, letting every bit of tension ride out of his body as though exhaling his final breath. He felt a twitch in his hand as he fought the slight urge to nibble on his nails.
The urge, in and of itself, repulsed him.
He decided to busy his hands by rubbing Stan’s back again, it was harsher this time, teetering on aggression while just barely remaining in the realm of comfort. He doubted Stan had much mind to complain regardless.
“Water?” Kyle offered, a mutually beneficial trade (Kyle gets a much needed break and Stan gets much needed water)
“Mmnn,” Stan hummed in affirmation, head still leaned to the side where the waste bin sat.
Kyle stood up with a sharp exhale, wincing at the sound of his knees cracking. When did they start doing that? Or did they always do that, had his joints creaked in such a manner when he was a child, or was it yet another manifestation of the unrelenting passage of time?
Before he knew it he was downstairs, lost in thought as he mindlessly poured tap water into a cup.
“Kyle?” A voice, harsh in its softness, comforting with its familiarity.
“Oh, hi Mrs. Marsh,” Kyle greeting, turning off the faucet. He hoped none of the tension leaked into his tone.
“Please, it’s Sharon,” Sharon corrected, leaning against the counter casually, idly fidgeting with the hem of her bathrobe, “Stan didn’t tell me you were coming over.”
“It was,” Kyle fought for an explanation, he didn’t know how much Stan wanted his mom to know about his condition, “unplanned.”
“Ah. Is he drinking again,” she walked over to the fridge, opening it and giving her words about as much thought as it took her to grab out a half empty gallon of milk.
Kyle stammered, watching Sharon close the door with her hips before finally saying, “Yea”
Sharon walked over to Kyle, setting the milk down on the counter next to the sink and reaching for a cup, the sleeve of her fleece nightgown falling up her arm.
“He’s really sick,” she commented, twisting open the jug. Her face, decorated with smile lines and graceful aging, held an unreadable expression.
“I know,” he responded with a grimace.
“We tried therapy but he refused to go,” her words were almost drowned out by the splash of milk in the bottom of the cup.
Kyle felt like an intrusion, like he shouldn’t know this much, that Stan wouldn’t want him knowing this much. It felt far too personal, and he took a tentative step away from Sharon.
“I should get go-“
“Maybe you could help,” She looked directly into his eyes, taking a sip of her milk.
That’s when Kyle recognized the expression.
It was fear.
Her eyes were sunken, an obvious sign of sleepless nights. Worry lines creased her forehead and her eyes were reddened from a recent cry.
Sharon was as afraid as Kyle, but she had the strength to express it and try to stop it.
“Me?”
“Stan needs support, someone to make him get better. You two have known each other forever, he likes you Kyle. I know you can help him,” Sharon stepped closer to Kyle, her voice walking the thin line between determination and desperation.
Kyle stepped back so quickly that a bit of water splashed from the cup and onto his hand. His grip hardened and the tips of his fingers hurt where the nail was too short.
“I won’t help,” he argued, furrowing his brows and looking at Sharon’s shoulders, too (afraid scared nervous tentative) frustrated to meet her eyes.
“Yes you would,” she set down the milk and grabbed Kyle’s arm, forcing him to look into her eyes. Kyle’s grimace grew.
“I should get back to Stan,” he mumbled, his tone harsh as he pulled himself out of Sharon’s arms.
Sharon’s words hung heavy in the air, weighing down the atmosphere with painful expectation. Kyle shuddered as he came to the realization that he was Sharon’s last hope for Stan.
“Don’t stay up to late,” her words held a sense of humor in them that was lost to the thickness of the situation.
Kyle hummed and retreated back up the stares.
Stan’s room was warmer than the hallway, a humid and uncomfortable heat, like the attic he and Stan used to play in. Where they would imagine otherworldly scenarios and act them out with no concern for anything of real merit. When their biggest issues were nothing but a speck, paling in comparison to the shitshow they were stuck living in now.
Stan reached for the water, grabbing at the air separating him from Kyle. He had shifted to laying on his side, curled around the bin. Kyle couldn’t help but think about what Sharon had said. If he could really do something, anything to help Stan not look so… Pathetic. Stepping closer, he set the cup onto the nightstand. It clinked softly, more water splashing over the side and dampening the wood surface. Kyle doubted that Stan would mind. He was a slob. That much was obvious by the piles of clothes littering the room. Emanating a faint, yet pungent odor. Balls of crumpled paper were tossed and brushed into the corners of the rooms.
Yea, not exactly a neat freak.
Kyle grabbed the bin, moving it back to its original position and deeming it a problem for tomorrow. He died a little internally at the smell.
“Dude, this is fucking sick,” he groaned, wiping his hands on his sweatshirt (he never said he wasn’t a slob either).
“Why are you still here,” Stan groaned as Kyle guided (lifted) him to a sitting position.
“Because we’re Super Best Friends, man,” Kyle went to grab the water, but froze when he felt Stan wrap his arms around him.
“I love you bro,” he cried into Kyle’s shoulder, breathing in his smell.
Kyle remained tense. Half of him wanted to hug back, to hold his best friend close and never let go, not until he was sober and swore to never touch alcohol again. The other half wanted to pull away and beat up Stan for being so dependent and weak and. Human.
His muscles softened as he melted into the hug. Wrapping his arms around Stan and squeezing.
He felt Stan shake, felt his shoulder grow cold as tears leaked through. His legs cramped in protest of the uncomfortable position, but he ignored it all. This hug was everything, it held a firm sense of finality, like this was the end of an era, the ribbon a top of a poorly wrapped gift. Yet it was also the approach to a fork in the road. Two choices Kyle could make. Stay with Stan and maybe, maybe, he’ll get better. Or leave. Save himself. Forget about Stan.
He decided he was done avoiding his problems. That this time, he was going to stay.