Chapter Text
The notes are pulsing through Stan’s veins alongside his blood. He almost completely forgets that other people are there, his friends. All that's there are the vibrations that flow around him.
The song heightens his senses, the hair on his arms are standing on their ends. Adrenaline is the thing that keeps his body running. He holds his breath for the finale. The last strum of his guitar is the thing to break this trance.
“That was the best one yet!!! We are going to KILL this show!!”, screams the drummer, Kenny McCormick, as he leans dangerously far back on an abused school chair.
“Craig and his stupid pussy guitar…” That's Cartman's way of saying violin “don't know how hard they’re gonna fuckin’ lose. His boyfriend’s gonna piss himself! Heh!” Feedback stings everyone's ears as Cartman starts to violently shake the microphone around.
“Calm down, fat-ass!” Kyle plugs his ears with his pointer fingers, “Jesus… Fuck, you’re gonna burst the eardrums of the entire school.”
Marjorine hops excitedly towards Stan. “That song is amazing!!! Your solo was awesome, Stan! The music felt so raw and emotional. The way you play is heavenly; our band would die without you!”
Music makes Stan feel alive. It’s always been there, holding good and bad memories. But it always seems to make those dark times just a bit brighter. It’s like he has constant backing track to his life, whether he be playing it on his guitar, whether it be blasting in his ears, or whether it be a clip of a song, repeating and repeating in his mind through class, the walk home, during dinner, and right before his eyes drift into a slumber.
The band members are cleaning up after themselves, packing away instruments, closing the windows of the music room, and as they leave, the lights get flicked off, leaving nothing but a black void behind them.
It’s 17:03 on an icy Friday in November. And its pitch-black outside, the broken hallway lights being the only thing illuminating the cold evening in a yellow glow. It's a comforting darkness that envelops the school and fits perfectly with the songs Stan listens to on repeat. A comforting sadness, a warm cup of bitter coffee, a horror movie you can fall asleep to.
The five are chatting, sharing lyric ideas, gossiping about their teachers, moaning about their apathy for mundane upcoming events. All the while, dodging uninterested janitors and maneuvering around sick and tired teachers that just want to get home after an exhausting day of dealing with insufferable teenagers. Stan’s in the middle of an interesting conversation with Kenny and Marjorine, they're talking about the time someone came up to them and told them to stop pushing the ‘queer agenda’ in their face.
“NAH NAAAAH, Because this bitch came up to us in the middle of the park and was babbling on about the gay agenda and how we’re grooming the younger generation. And us two were so confused” They both simultaneously look at each other and pause for a brief second, then Kenny goes on, “because we look like a straight couple - I think - so I eventually asked her ‘why are you talking to us about this?’ and I am directly quoting this fucker when she said she thought I was a cis woman. A CISGENDER FEMALE.” Stan’s expression doesn't change that much but he’s just as invested nonetheless, “Okay, I get it. I look feminine from afar because of my long hair and how I'm quite short, but she was all up in my face. She could see all my acne and stubble and whatever other masculine features I have. So it just amazes me how she was ranting on and on in our faces and somehow still thought we were a cis lesbian couple. I’m just- The dedication of this woman is insane.”
Time flies by in the corridors, the five have already gone the long way to the school exit (because the shorter way was already locked by the janitors). But right as they step out of the school gates, a voice calls out from behind them, “Hey dudes! Nice playing back there!” Clyde bellows, projecting his voice as far as he can, although it’s not that necessary. “We're gonna hang out at mine tonight, my dad’s coming home late tonight so we can party! Wanna come? I know where dad hides the key to the liquor cupboard…”
Stan is excited by the offer, but the others have beat him to it. They agreed the second Clyde's words entered their ears. “Hell yeah! Come on guys, let's go!” Cartman is the first to exclaim, he's probably most excited about the idea of drinking.
“Awesome, I’ll just have to ask my mom first. Wait a sec…” Kyle whips out his phone to message his mom, the text strokes fast but also calm and calculated.
“Marj, you comin’?” Kenny loudly whispers to his girlfriend.
“I'm not sure… My parents might ground me.” There's a brief pause, “Oh well… I’m already gonna be grounded! Might as well spend my remaining time the best I can! I won't be drinking though! I’ll never drink.”
“Cool,” Kenny redirects his voice towards Clyde and the others, “Me and Marj are coming!”
“I’ll tag along! I think you were playing pretty good today too, let's-'' Stan clears his throat and changes his accent slightly to sound more sophisticated and raises his arm into the air as if he's making a toast, “set aside our differences for this one night. We will join our kingdoms together for this special occasion…” There's a moment where Stan is trying his hardest to hold in laughter but he can’t and his true laugh is set free into the wild.
“Alright, alright. Follow my car over to my house.” Clyde twirls around and runs off to his car, “C’mon guys!! My dad isn’t gonna be working forever!” His group climb into his car with varying energy. Clyde in the driver’s seat, Jimmy in the passenger seat after yelling “I DIBS SHOTGUN” so loud the wildlife around them scattered away, Tolkien in the right back seat telling everyone to put on their seatbelts, Craig in the middle so Tweek can have the window seat, and Tweek squishing in the last remaining seat.
The others smoosh themselves into Kyle’s car, Kyle in the driver's seat, Cartman running as fast as he can to get into the passenger seat, and the other three fighting over who goes in the middle seat. And after 30 seconds, the sad middle seat lands in the hands of Stan. “Oh my fucking god, Why am I always the one with the middle!” Stan complains. “Why can’t Cartman get his fat-ass here?”
“Because it’s uncomfortable. You’re skinny enough to fit so stop complaining, maybe it’ll slim you down,” Cartman huffs and puffs at Stan’s remark; he’s like a small child having a tantrum.
Kyle starts up the vehicle, turning on the radio and following close behind the rival band’s polished car. All of them are engaged in a conversation, they're conversing about the song playing through the speakers, and the driver comments on it, “This shit’s trash, who the fuck is listening to this voluntarily?!?” The song is some generic pop song, Stan doesn’t really have any strong opinions on the things that are popular - as he just likes to listen to what he likes and doesn't care about anything else - but the others have very contrasting with their beliefs “It feels like the singer is constantly singing flat and he can’t sing any notes higher than D#5”
Kyle is the only one there with perfect pitch, it comes in handy when melody ideas suddenly come to mind, but Kyle has always said how it bugs him. He says how he finds correlations in random sounds and how he can't get it out of his mind when he notices them. Like that one time in a restaurant where he was freaking out about the fact that the sound of the ice swirling around in his cup was the same frequency as his alarm sound. He was fixated on it for the rest of the evening, not giving up in his discovery to find out what else was in F#6.
“God shut the fuck up with your music nerd shit, the song sounds just fine.” Cartman rolls his eyes cartoonishly, “You’re being dramatic.”
Kenny leans forward until his head is just peeking around the passenger seat, “PFFFTTTT, Says you!?! You haven't matured since the age of 9, you're LITERALLY taking acting classes and drama is your best subject.” Cartman is embarrassed of his words, he has that often. Saying something impulsively and then everyone ridiculing him. At least it's a good source of laughter.
Marjorine chimes in, “I like this song! I like the synth-y sound and the back up vocals that sound like someone’s going ‘wawawawawawawawawawa’ into a fan!” She leans her head side to side to the beat, her feet stomping to the bpm and clapping to the off-beat, “It's got a fast tempo but still feels somewhat calming.”
“Hmmmmm,” Stan takes some time to collect his thoughts, “I like it… but I don't love it.It's just a pop song! Not too different from the rest out there. Buuuuttt, The Smiths is automatically better than anything on the radio, just saying! My taste reigns supreme!!”
Kyle retorts. “You can’t say anything, You listen to Weezer” He says it as if it’s a curse. “Alternative rock, Art rock, Brooklyn indie, Permanent wave, Britpop. I know all of them because of you.” A sigh escapes his lungs, “God, why am I still friends with you?” The song skips to the next, it’s more of the same kind of music.
Shortly after, they arrive at Clyde’s house. It's the same as Stan remembers it from childhood and the same as most houses in the small town. All of the houses were built at the same time and it really just depended on whether the owners wanted any renovations, which not many did. Stan likes it like that though, he likes how everything stays familiar, how he’d never lose track of where he was because knows where everything is. He likes that feeling of security.
The others are already scrambling inside the house by the time Kyle’s car starts to slow down. Kyle’s parking is really good, especially compared to what Stan is used to seeing from his dad. But Kyle is holding his breath while doing it, as if not to repeat a previous mistake. The tension visibly rises in his expression as his face starts to fade into a deeper and deeper red for every second. It looks as if his fiery hair is standing on its ends, as much as it can in its winding coils. The vehicle finally stops and the pale color finally returns to his face in a large exhale. “C’mon guys!” Tolkien called out, holding the door for Stan’s gang.
The inside of the house isn’t much different from when they were eight, yes, there were new photos, a new cabinet, and new pillows on the couch, but Stan still knew the ins and outs of every corner.
Clyde was bashing about in the kitchen, rummaging around for snacks. “Hey dudes!! Whatcha want?? I got… Doritos, Pringles, Pop-Tarts, a bunch of soda…”
“What kind of soda?” Cartman peeks his head through the doorway.
Clyde whips his body around to face the fridge, “Uhhh, Coke, Pepsi, Fanta, Mountain Dew… most kinds of soda. Oh, and a couple Red Bulls. Hey, can someone help me get all these into the living room?”
Kenny, Marjorine, and Tolkien head into the other room at varying paces and energy. And come out soon after; Kenny comes out first with a cooler filled with cans of soft drinks, energy drinks, and beer, Tolkien comes out second with three stacks of paper cups, Cartman throws 5 bags of different chips vaguely in the direction of the others - only one of them landing on the coffee table. Marjorine is the third to exit the kitchen and brings out a small plate of Pop-Tarts - half toasted and half not, and Clyde comes out last with an assortment of alcohol. “I’m heading out for candy, you guys want anything specifically?”
“Gummy worms!!”, stutters Jimmy, confidently.
“Takis, the red ones!” Kenny loves Takis, it’s a common fact at this point.
“Jolly Ranchers.” , mutters Tweek, rocking back and forth on the floor.
“Can you get me a Monster?” Kyle is the only one to be polite.
“Okay, so I got: Gummy worms, Takis, Jolly Ranchers, aaaanndd, what flavor of monster?”
“I’m fine with whatever, pick out a random one. Thanks.” It's somewhat a surprise to hear Kyle wanting an energy drink. He’s always been the one to rant on about how they’re bad for you.
“Wow, never thought I’d see school prodigy, goody-two-shoes Kyle Broflovski asking his classmate to buy a monster energy drink for him.” You can actually see surprise in Craig’s eyes, vastly different from his usual deadpan expression.
“I’ve mostly stayed away from them because of my mom's scare tactics and my diabetes, but it’s okay now. I know how to deal with anything, I have an insulin pump rather than having to get injections in the nurse's office. It’s nice because I can actually do stuff like not having to have pre-packed food all the time.”
“I don’t have them ‘cause they give me the opposite of energy. I can't do anything when I drink them… It’s weird because my parents’ coffee makes me super jittery. I dunno what the fuck they do to that shit.” Tweeks back is arched forward as he holds a Pepsi can by the rim.
“My orthodontist says I can’t have carbonated drinks, something about my braces. I can understand the appeal of stuff like Fanta and Red Bull but I don't and will never understand the appeal of cola drinks. What even is cola anyway? It freaks me out.” Craig speaks through a lisp.
Jimmy responds the best he can, “Well, I think it’s because people don't know what it is th-that people like it. Also because drinks like coke have a shit ton of sugar and caffeine in them that makes them so addictive.”
The conversation carries on, going from soda to sugar to bees to spiders to fears until the door is dramatically opened by an excited Clyde. “A blue Monster for my lord!” He is so goddamn dramatic, but in a way that’s not too serious, and more enjoyable than Cartman.
“I shall take this and remember your treacherous journey to provide me with this ailment,” The two burst out in laughter. Stan finds it surprising since they haven't talked in a long while, it’s nice to see their elementary school class getting along again.
“C’mon dudes!! We have everything! Movie, MarioKart, or… something else?” He gestures towards the liquor bottles as he places down what he bought. “I think we should pop a bottle first.”
Cartman perks up immediately, as if he's a dog about to receive its food. “Good idea!!” He then goes all out, opening all the bottles in quick succession. He knocks over a house of cups Craig and Jimmy were making and, without any second thought, creates a rancid concoction of a liquid. If you could even call it that, it looks barely consumable. Tweek retorts, “Hey, shit head! There’s more cups over there!”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures…” Tweek pulls on his scruffy hair, a fuse is about to blow. Craig holds Tweek’s arm close, in order to hopefully calm him down. And Cartman’s still being a dick like always, a narcissistic idiot.
“Ayo, dickhead, pass me the bottle!” Clyde extends his arm, Cartman taking his first of many sips of alcohol.
“Catch.” Cartman throws the glass dangerously, just barely missing those between the two. A spike of adrenaline tenses Stan’s body and the bottle flies past, just 2 inches from smashing into his face. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, he tightens his fists and grips the floor stronger than he ever has before. His lips are frozen in place, unable to move.
“Thanks man!” It seems the two enabling this are completely oblivious, then finally Stan spouts the words he’s been meaning to say.
“My life just flashed before my eyes, What the fuck, are you drunk off of one sip?”
“No I’m not, I’ve drunk tons of times before. Maybe you should have some,” Stan stiffs up slightly, mentions of alcohol and specifically himself being drunk makes him slightly on edge. The awkwardness is broken shortly afterwards by Tolkien rummaging through Clyde’s cupboards, presumably looking for something.
“You got any good video games? What consoles do you have?” They're trashing the drawers one by one.
Clyde scratches his chin like a mad scientist in thought, it's hard to tell if he genuinely acts like this or if he's doing it jokingly. “I got a Wii and a PS4, I know, not the newest stuff but it's cool.”
“You just ignored my question.” They chuckled just slightly annoyed, and proceed to repeat their original query, only this time, very… slowly… “What. Games. Do. You. Have?”
“God, and here we have Tolkien, Queen of the Demanding family,” Tolkien rolls their eyes. “OKAAAAY, we have MarioKart, Smash Bros., Call of Duty, and uhhhhh, some others I can’t remember.”
Tolkien is still foraging when something pushes him aback, “WOAH-OH-OOOHHH!!! DUDE!” They pull out a DVD of some kind. “Holy shit.” Suddenly everyone is huddling around them and trying to get a look at what they just uncovered. What’d ya find? What was in there? What’s that? Clyde is pulled over by Tolkien. “Check. It. Out. What is your dad DOING?”
Clyde’s face goes almost completely pale as he snatches the box, “YOOOOO, I think I know what he’s doing!” He faces the DVD towards the small group that has accumulated before them. “My dad has fucking hardcore porn in here!!”
Kyle lunges out of the depths and covers the front of the box, “Heeeyyy, we are NOT watching this.”
Cartman wraps his hand around Kyle’s left wrist, “Dude… Hands off the treasure.”
“Treasure?! Fuckin’ God, if you wanna jack off so bad you can go into the bathroom, we dont wanna see your 2 inches.”
“You're such a wuss, everyone wants to watch it say ‘Here’!” Only one small ‘here’ escapes from Cartman’s mouth, The rest are blankly staring at him. A breathy whisper also escapes. “You guys are pussies… and I’d beat you in MarioKart anyways”
Kyle puts the case back to where it was on the shelf. Grabbing a couple other items in the process. Suddenly, a Wii controller comes flying at Stan, it punches him in the stomach.
A heave is struck out of Stan’s lungs followed by a series of half-laughs, half-coughs. “You. Me. Smash Bros. I am gonna beat you into the ground!” Kyle jumps onto the seat next to him after plunging the disk into Clyde’s Wii. Stan springs back up in the battle of who can make their controller player one first.
The all-too familiar start-up jingle grants Stan player one and controller of the game. Kyle scoffs and elbows Stan in the side, “Excuse me, but I am INFINITELY better at the role of player one,”
“Weeeellll, MAYBE you should have thought of that before you were too slow.”
One of Jimmy’s narrator voices describes the scene, “Now marks the start of the ‘Stan is s- super fucking slow’ saga of the movie. Press the fast forward button when Stan is bad at being player one. A good decision w- would be to give the player one remote to Kyle.”
“Jesus, I’m not that slow. If I’m so slow the-”
“Bro. You just spent 2 minutes talking about how you weren’t slow…” Tolkien’s tone of voice emphasizes his point. But suddenly the remote slips out of Stan’s hands and quickly hovers around to select the game.
“DICKHEAD! I earned that!!” Stan is climbing over Kyle to retrieve his controller back. But by the time he gets it back, everything is set up and on the character selection screen.
“I managed to set everything up with you climbing all over me in less than the time it took you to talk about doing it, maybe I am a better player one!” A smug look is smeared all across his face, and chuckles escape his lips.
“C’mon let's go, I always beat you anyways.” It's true. Stan has always been amazing at video games, especially fighting games (such as Smash Bros.). He’s been an absolute Nintendo superfan for all he can remember from having his first experiences in the Game Boy, his love for the consoles has remained. His favorite game series are the Mario series and the Zelda series. It's those two that have stayed with him forever, same as with music, it can change his mood to better than before immediately. He thinks that Mario and Zelda are the two best things to have ever happened to him.
Kyle picks Lucario, Stan thinks they’re similar in some strange way. There's no discernible similarities to the average person, but to Stan they’re alike. They share the same aura. Stan chooses Sonic, fast paced, energetic. Funny how he doesn’t play a character from his favorite game.
Kyle lists off the rules, “Random stage, three lives, the only item is the Smash Ball, no spamming, got it?” They both nod in unison, and it's like a proper audience has surrounded them. Popcorn being munched, whispers being shared, names being chanted. And though it's only eight other people, it feels like they’re going against each other in a major world tournament, being watched on stage and on screens. The pressure is on, the good kind of pressure.
The words “ B A T T L E ! ” ring the bell of war. The fight has begun.
The two boys have trained together for years, going through good times and hard times. That much time with your allies is amazing, but with your enemy, your efforts for improvements can be futile.
It feels as if the living room of a school friend has turned into an epic arena, thousands of people. In one ear you can hear them chanting “Stan! Stan! Stan! Stan!” And in the other, you hear them roaring “Kyle! Kyle! Kyle! Kyle!”. Adrenaline is mixed in his veins 50/50 alongside his blood, this is the final moment to prove his worthiness.
Each press of a button is a gamble with infinite outcomes, only a skilled fighter can predict and forge their outcome. And Stan isn’t sure if he’s at that level yet, although he isn’t sure if Kyle has either. It’s a world of uncertainty playing in this dangerous world. Stan loses his first life as a result of taking too much damage, although Kyle isn't that far behind at 134.6% damage. And as Stan guessed, Kyle was soon sent into the void.
With every major hit or life lost, there is an uproar in the small audience surrounding them, Kenny, Tolkien, Jimmy, and Catman supporting Stan, and Tweek, Craig, Marjorine, and Clyde supporting Kyle. Beads of sweat dripping down Stan’s face, he sees Kyle's cheeks turning redder everytime he takes damage. Kyle has always been prone to raging, resorting to petty violence and multi-language curses when he loses. Once he made a big crack in the wall after losing at MarioKart, breaking a controller in the process. You can imagine his mother’s reaction, and unsurprisingly, he was grounded for a couple weeks, being seen doing a ton of chores to make up for the money his parents would have to spend on a new controller. Supposedly the chores were the only activity he had access to.
The stakes get higher and higher as the match goes on, the boys becoming more fixated on the game, it's as if the only thing in the world is the TV. Stan concentrating harder than he ever thought was possible. Kyle is in the zone - an almost inescapable state of mind that completely takes over one’s being - and he gets stuck in it often, it's a labyrinth to navigate and pull Kyle out, but it usually ends 30 seconds after the match is over.
By the 3 minute mark, both are down to their last life. Every muscle in Stan’s body is tensing up, every hair standing on its end, the pupils in his eyes dilating to a previously unseen size. He’s leaning forward so far that he’s about to fall out of his seat. And he’s so close to winning.
Every hit goes back and forth until the two are neck and neck, 160% health, a dangerous amount. A few good hits could win either side the match. Lucario is chasing around Sonic's spin dashes, avoiding all hits until vulnerable in the air. Sonic quickly twists around and rams himself into Lucario’s back, but as they recovers from the collision, Lucario swiftly grabs Sonic dealing 9%, 10%, 11% damage.
Suddenly, a glimmer of light floats above them, the all-mighty and powerful, turning the user into an unstoppable beast capable of decimating any opponent, the Smash Ball. The players look up to behold its beauty, now the fight has gone from each other to the ball. The first to attempt and capture it is Lucario, stopping at no opportunity to annihilate his foe. The jumps are smooth and feel like every step is taken with care and ferocity.
Just as Lucario lunges towards the ball and winds back a punch, he is beat by the brisk Sonic, diving into it faster than the speed of sound, he lands a couple hits at it before falling back down.
The breaths of all surrounding are held, faces turning purple. Stan takes brief looks at his opponent every 10 seconds or so, Kyle’s poofy head of fiery hair obscuring most facial features from a side view. A defined face and blistering hazel eyes that turn a deep mocha by the night. Someone who seems so hard and rigid on the outside blooms onto a bright and joyful personality with a quick laugh, a beautiful laugh. One that goes against the standards for a pretty laugh, one the most people (including him) would be insecure of, he snorts and wheezes at a joke but that's the thing that makes it all the more natural and genuine. It’s that raw human emotion that makes him enjoyable to be around, someone you can fully trust.
Stan can’t keep his thoughts away from Kyle. Yes, he’s still focusing on the game; but recently, he’s felt captivated by the one he’s spent all his life with. It feels odd, but a good odd. The odd you feel when you’re about to ride that exhilarating rollercoaster that everyone talks about. It’s butterflies in your stomach.
Lucario leaps, throwing kicks and punches at the Smash ball floating around amongst the various platforms. Crack forms on the surface, small streams of light flowing out until the cracks give way. Lucario is blinded by the soon following flash, and gains the power of the entity if just opened.
The crowd erupts, Kyle’s eyes brighten and he gasps in glory. The side rooting for Kyle bursts out in cheers, but the side favoring Stan groans in defeat. The two fighting turn heads at each other, Kyle with a distinctive smirk on his face.
Lucario rises in the air, the middle of the stage. Sonic cowers in his place, running around to attempt dodging the inevitable. Waves of aura form around the airborne figure, gathering in a ball in it’s hands. Lucario’s piercing stare marks the start of attack. The collecting beam points to Sonic’s direction, still desperately trying to disorient the danger, but his attempt is futile. The ray fires, consuming the platforms in it’s way. Sonic is trapped, the beam encapsulates him. Damage after damage is dealt. 170%, 180%, 190%, 200%. The fate of the hedgehog is sealed. The onslaught ends, sending Sonic flying away. A final word is spoken. “VICTORY!”
The world freezes for a brief moment, no one breathes. The only thing moving is the second hand on the clock strung up onto the wall.
. . .
Screams emit violently from the crowd. Kyle jumps out of his seat, bellowing a large shout. Kenny is melting onto the floor, making fake crying noises. Tolkien is somewhat comforting Stan as he buries his head in his hands, defeat swallowing him whole. Embarrassed by his loss.
A tall figure’s arm extends in front of Stan, “C’mon man! You’ve beaten me way more before.” The beauty, Kyle, stands before Stan, and he’s right. For years before, the roles would be reversed. Stan would conquer the world of Smash, this being only one of two times he lost, the other one being when he was blocked by Shelley when she was trying to take control of the TV.
Stan’s hand whips around to meet Kyle’s, and he unexpectedly lunges back, pulling Stan out of his seat and knocking them both over. Laughter bursts out of the two eventually spreading to the rest. Stan is wheezing and his chest tightens, he weakly points towards his bag, sat by the door, it soon being hurled towards him. Stan, still laying down, digs an inhaler out his bag. The uproar around him is beginning to die down. A few puffs later and his attention returns to his surroundings. Kyle is still limp on the floor staring up at the popcorn ceiling.
Clyde takes the Wii remote like a sword, pointing it at Kyle. “I challenge thee to a battle, a battle of great risk but, oh, what a satisfying victory!” Clyde is facing side-on to Kyle - who’s still lying on the floor - his eyes closed and head held high.
“This is a dangerous offer…” The figure beside Stan pushes himself off the floor, “But I accept, as I believe I am ready for the incoming brawl.” Kyle fully rises, grabbing the previous controller he used and slumping on the couch.
Kyle reigns supreme, obviously. His button presses are all perfectly in time, while Clyde seems to be mashing whatever buttons he finds to be useful. Seeing everyone getting along again is nice, not that they’d ever hated each other, the groups had just lost connection since the start of middle school. Everyone changed so much from their 10 year old selves.
Tweek was now the taller one compared to Craig, and Craig finally got the braces he needed for a long time. Jimmy had grown out his hair, but still rocking his iconic yellow shirt and decked-out crutches. Tolkien’s hair was now in locks with shiny accessories, he looks elegant, as if he’s going to a fancy party. Clyde still wears his red and white varsity jacket, although it's been patched up and ripped. The five are still just like a group of 4th graders.
—
Stan contemplates drinking, he’s been stressing a lot over the past couple weeks due to grades and family, but even just the smell of beer reminds him of his drunken father. A conflict runs through his mind - back and forth, yes and no - but eventually, his conclusion becomes clear. “Yo, what kind of alcohol doesn’t taste like old tyres?”
“All of them do really, but it's better if you mix it in with something else.” Kenny is swirling around a can of Red Bull in his hands. He’s sitting in the most uncomfortable position imaginable, completely unfazed.
“There's some OJ in the fridge! I think there's also some grape juice in one of the cupboards.” Clyde perks up, scarfing down some unrecognizable candy, probably from under the couch.
“Jesus,” Stan climbs up “How much food do you have in this fucking house? Is your fridge infinite?” He jokes, turning around into the doorway, although it is partly a genuine question.
“I still need to get tons of stuff. We don’t have any honey or Cheerios or ketchup… Eh, I’ll go out tomorrow,”
Stan overthinks it. The thoughts clash and collide, turning him off any extravagant concoction. Resorting to prying open a can of beer.
A sigh escapes his breathy lungs as he melts into the couch, beside Marjorine, who’s sobbing over the sad movie playing on the TV. She’s clinging onto Kenny’s right arm, who’s also crying, and everytime they sniff, the words coming from the speakers become a blur. So around every 2 seconds.
Kyle, Craig, Jimmy, and Tweek are playing a game of monopoly on the floor. Jimmy seems to be winning by the grunts of frustration emitting from the other three players. Clyde is fixated on his laptop, most likely on Twitter or another social media that you can mindlessly scroll on for hours. Everything’s all nice. “WHYYYY!!!! THEY JUST WANTED TO BE TOGETHERRR!! WAAAAAAAAHHH!!” Kenny throws his head back dramatically as the credits scroll. “THEY LOVED EACH OTHER, AND THAT BITCH TOOK IT AWAY.” The two eventually recover, the tears drying up but their eyes still puffy.
Game pieces are thrown across the room as Kyle flips the board, “Yo, what the fuck?!” Craig retorts.
A house piece smacks Stan in the head, “You were cheating! You took my Park Lane while I wasn’t looking!!” Kyle is aggressively pointing in Jimmy’s face, “That's against the rules, I have to agree to a trade of properties for you to take anything of mine!”
“W-well then maybe you should’ve had better control over your cards?” Jimmy admits. He isn’t fazed or scared.
Kyle’s face goes beet red, pure anger pulses through his veins. A couple breaths later, he goes back to sitting on the carpet.
“I actually had the most money so I win,” Craig speaks up, “748 dollars.” Everyone starts counting up the Monopoly money they have laying in front of them, or in their hands, and It’s true. Tweek has ₩460, Kyle has ₩235, and Jimmy has ₩693.
Everything calms down from loud words to small conversations, Stan joins in on another Monopoly game, teamed up against Tweek, Kenny, and Tolkien. The game heats up quickly, each dice roll being like a gamble in a glorious Las Vegas casino. Lights illuminating a never sleeping construction of gold. Properties flying in and out of availability, cruising around the roads of London’s most valuable properties.
Stan quickly grasps Coventry Street and Piccadilly, whilst begging that no one else takes the last he needs to complete the yellow collection. A sip is taken from the can in his hand.
Kenny goes straight for Park Lane and Mayfair, not taking even a glance for any properties he passes. He completely fixates on what he sees as most valuable.
Jimmy goes with a similar approach, but at least he goes along strategically. He takes a gander at the things he passes, buying the occasional property. Usually to sabotage.
Tweek goes in a “classic” way. Buying every property he lands on, a safe way in the beginning but can lead to your downfall in later turns.
Dice are thrown, pieces are moved, money is spent. Kenny has miraculously landed on both blue properties, granting him a supposed “automatic win” but Stan doesn't believe that they’re the be all and end all of the game. Although he is guilty himself of sacrificing everything for Park lane and Mayfair, and losing in the overall game. Jimmy gets houses on his set of orange properties scarily quickly, clearly it was best to devise strategy beforehand. “Okay.” Stan takes a deep breath, “Tolkien, I see that you have Leicester Square. And I have Pall Mall. Would you be willing to trade? You’ll be able to buy houses once you finish the set!”
“Uuuuhhhh…. No? You'll get more money out of it. Yellow is more valuable than pink.” Tolkien smirks as he declines, sipping at his CapriSun.
“Heeeeyyyy… have you ever had a go ‘round where you HAVEN'T landed on a pink square?” Stan is very clearly reaching far for arguments. Tolkien raises an unfazed eyebrow, arms crossed and decision unchanging.
“Actually, yes, I have. Two times in this one game.” The trivial court case ends with rolled eyes on one end and excited exclamation on another. “But I have yet to see you avoid those squares.”
The card seems to ascend from heaven, a gateway to prosperity and affluence. But just as the cards exchange;
THUMP
“AH!! What the fuck dude?”
Craig was smacked in the back of the head by a floral patterned pillow, held in the hands of narcissistic menace, Eric Theodore Cartman. “HAHAHAHAHAHAAA!” Manic laughter erupts from the large figure behind the couch.
“Ohhhh, you are asking for it,” An calmly angered Craig Tucker rolls up his sleeves and yanks a pillow from underneath Marjorine. “Fat boy.”
A swing strikes Cartman right in the face. Silence falls, rage fills Cartman's heterochromatic eyes. "Craig…" A vengeful hit flies towards the opposing side, only missing due to the couch barrier between them. Kenny jumps up, joining Craig in the fight against Cartman, but an accidental swing lands everyone a target of all, every man for himself.
Soon, everyone takes part in the battle. Everything being a blur of different fabrics and feathers.
By this point, Stan is decently drunk. Able to do most things as normal but his words muddle and slur into one abomination of sounds. But it's enjoyable . He feels in control, but still able to let things loose.
A case of feathers whips against Stan's side. It sends him off balance, he waddles around until stumbling into the couch. "HA HAAA! Gotcha!" Kyle points and laughs but is suddenly interrupted by the same action committed towards him. A smack in the back pushing him onto the couch.
Kyle falls onto Stan, a small yelp let out as he lands. Stan has to collect himself after the fall, the other already having moved on. Kyle was cold, but a comfortable cold. His somewhat boney figure absorbing the heat from his surroundings. Stan, after a few seconds lost in thought, jumps back up. Ready for the next attack.
The mayhem carries on. Grunts and laughs erupt a positive atmosphere. Even those you wouldn't expect to fight are going all out.
CRACK
All attention diverts to a wall near the TV, where Kenny had just been pushed into a photo frame. A disorientated Kenny crawls away from his previous position, glancing back to see the damage. He sees. They all see.
A treasured photo, one of Clyde's mother and father. The custom-made frame was fractured into shards of its former self.
All that can be heard is the small shards of glass dropping on the floor. All of the rowdy bunch sit in silence as a distraught Clyde frantically scans the room to detect who caused this to happen. His furrowed eyes land back onto the photo, only small yelps escape his mouth with the occasional single-syllable word. "Uh- I- who- huh?"
Everyone realizes the damage, this isn't any normal situation. "C'mon dude," The silence is broken by a pat on the back. "Hopefully we can fix it, alright? Let's pick up the pieces." Kyle bends down to pick up the shards after delivering his words. Marjorine soon follows suit.
"It's okay, all we need is some glue! Plus the frame isn't too damaged, it's mostly the glass. Do you have any spare frames we can replace the glass with?" Marjorine suggests, trying her best not to make it worse by babying him. "Let's go to the kitchen. Then we can sit down at an actual table and it'll be easier!" Clyde's eyes grow slightly puffy as he, Kyle and Marj head into the other room.
The air doesn't relax as they leave, but it feels as if it all focuses on one point in the room. They all sit down, not bothering to clean up after themselves, and all eyes divert to one individual. He acts all confused. "Come on guys, why are you all looking at me?"
"Cartman. It's so painfully obvious that you pushed Kenny." Stan bluntly expresses what plagues all their minds. An exaggerated gasp is coughed up by Eric.
"Uh-! Is there REALLY any evidence to say that I was the one that pushed Kenny… Reeeaaaally?"
Tolkien retorts, "Yeah, by the fact that you were screaming 'I'm gonna get you Kenny you short fuck' and how you're the most likely to break a photo of someone and their dead mother on purpose and try to cover up the obvious evidence."
At this point, most of them are quite drunk. Some can barely think clearly, not helped by the sudden switch of tone from an energetic and rowdy pillow fight to a growingly silent awkwardness. Small conversations could be heard from the next room. The only sound surrounding the rest being the occasional crumpling chip bag and sip of a drink.
The lack of sounds violently vibrate in Stan’s head, making a painful ringing. Music plugs Stan’s ears but the sound is too much to handle. He wobbles around and into the kitchen.
Water. He needs water.
The words repeat continually, attempting to drown out the silence.
Stan stumbles over the kitchen sink, everything feels like it's spinning. It’s as if he got motion sickness from standing still.
The ringing is everything Stan hears. All encompassing him is a cloud of thick fog. Deafening fog. Disorienting fog.
“Stan! You okay man?”
He ignores the calls.
He’s hallucinating.
This has happened before.
“Dude, are you sick?”
Deep breaths…
Deep breaths…
Deep… Breaths…
Deep…
Breaths…
The sharp stab of long, bony fingers hits Stans back, his head whips around faster than what he can remember. A small dose of whiplash strikes. “Shit, dude! You good?”
Groans escape the body slumped over the counter top. “I think I drank too much…”
Sigh “Alright dude, let's get you upstairs. I think Clyde's dad would kill you if you threw up in the kitchen.
His core jolted with pain every step, one stair, two stairs, three stairs. Each moment was individual but the transition between them was completely unrecognizable. The door creaked in front of him. A blinding white light stings Stan's vision. He can physically feel his pupils contract into miniscule islands, buried in the waves of a deep ocean.
His head hangs over the toilet bowl, staring into the liquid void. “How you feeling?” The question starts the cogs in Stan’s brain “Still feel sick?”
Stan is ashamed to nod his head. He knew this would happen. He knows what happens when he's drunk, but he does it anyway. He knows this feeling all too well.
Kyle sits beside him, far away, but close enough for that comfort. Kyle is a germaphobe. Always disgusted by dirty people, dirty places, and the idea of being sick. And Stan feels bad about putting Kyle through something he hates. He finds it ironic how someone who hates throwing-up became best friends with a person that is sick so often. But Stan really appreciates Kyle’s presence, not just in situations like these, but everywhere. Kyle is the one to make everything better.
“Thanks, dude…” Nothing stops tears from forming “God.. Fuck. Why do you hang around me?” Kyle takes a second to compose an answer.
“You’re drunk, Stan. You’re clearly not okay,” He avoids the question “I think it’s better if you go home.”
Kyle isn't able to finish until Stan retorts, “NO!” Regret sets in . He knows that Kyle is right, but he must finish his reply now, “…I- I don’t wanna be a pussy. I’ll go home with everyone else.”
“I really don’t think- Oh well, you’ll see that I’m right eventually.” He stands up off of the tiled floor, “I’ll go down now, call if you need me. I’m like your fucking baby sitter.” A whisper just barely heard from under Kyle’s breath.
The door slams, leaving just Stan in the fluorescent lighting. His chest eases open, a gasp of air releases into the room. Each second by Kyle’s side feels like a rollercoaster, exhilarating but dreadful. He has a constant fear of messing up his words in conversation but each moment without him feels like a piece is missing from the experience.
“I told myself I wouldn't get drunk again” His head buries in thoughts, each one twisting his nauseated stomach even further. A final round of sickness prompt him to search. There must be some kind of Tylenol here somewhere… A box reveals itself in the cabinet. The lid screws open with a pair of clammy hands, and a pill is swallowed, dry.
A bracing puff of air sets Stan off downstairs again. His stance straightens, only a taste of disorientation left. He counts the stairs as a different number than the trip upstairs. Although, his legs still feel frail.
Stan pivots around the banister, greeted by an assemblage of drained faces. Half of them are lethargically watching a brain-dead program, the other half with their head swung around to, mouth agape, silently acknowledge Stan's incoming footsteps. All of them seem lifeless, all previous energy completely lost.
Stan scans the room as an eerie missing presence is sensed by him “Where's Tweek and Craig?”
“They went home like… 10 minutes ago, I think?” A tired Tolkien rubs their eyes as they recall the past blurry moments. “Uuuggghhh… I wanna go home…”
A series of grunts and groans signifies a unanimous agreement, “Alright, since I’m the only, except for Marj, non-drunk person here” Kyle announces, “I’ll give you guys a ride home, alright? Marj are you gonna walk home orrr…”
“I’m okay! I think I’ll walk Kenny home with me.” She gently grabs hold of Kenny, pulling him out of his seat.
A clap startles those still in the room, “C’mon dudes, let's get into my car.” A mass of half-dead beings snatch their belongings and sluggishly lunge themselves into Kyle's car, resembling a zombie apocalypse. Ignition starts, all 5 of them cramming themselves into the small vehicle. Stan sits in the passenger seat, Jimmy, Tolkien, and Cartman jammed into the back seats.
Stan grips the neck of his guitar, trying not to fall into a slumber. But he doesn't have to try too hard, since the boy beside him is making his heart beat too fast to fall asleep. The stuffy air in the strangles Stan’s trachea, it battles with the furious stabs of frozen breeze belonging to the blustery Colorado mountains. “Why didn't you put your guitar in the back?” A dazed Stan questions for a moment.
“Uhhh… I don’t know?” Kyle’s eyes stick to the road, frigid November ice scattering the street and engaging Kyle’s eyes only on it. But Kyle is always listening to everything going on around him, as if his senses are heightened compared to those around him.
“Stanley Marsh, professional dumbass and loser guitarist. In denial about the fact that bass is infinitely better than guitar.” He snickers, “Also cannot count to 3 without getting distracted.” The car halts to a stop.
Jimmy grips his crutches and clambers out of the vehicle. A yawn escapes while he gives his thanks, “Thanks for the ride, Kyle.” The car door lingers open for a short second before pivoting shut. The journey continues.
The shivering air freezes those afflicted by its harsh breath, slightly numbing Stan’s fingers. The frets in his grip almost cutting through his fingers. Harsh dents remain, signifying the guitar's presence in Stan’s grasp. Shrap exhales slice open his trachea, sending a wave of agony up his spine and alerting his entire body. Mind swinging in circles, reality crumpling and shedding his infront of his clenched shut eyes. Time seems illegitimate, the same time frame warping before a chance to comprehend anything comes, the world feels as if it were to collapse. Stan’s eyes drift closed, to rest. His heavy eyelids block out all sensory input, unplugging Stan’s mind from reality’s mainframe. A comforting darkness envelops him. Warm, welcoming. A place to lose one’s self in a feat of meditation. A safespace unreachable, even by those trusted the most.
One last halt. A called name. A soft voice. “We’re home, c’mon dude.” The driver’s seat door clicks open. A shadowed figure strides across the windshield, casting a cool shadow amongst the artificial yellow light streaming down from the ancient street lamps. The door next to Stan gently whips open, wafting a breeze of fresh air onto his face. Words from a disembodied voice ring and rattle inside Stan’s mind. A good thirty seconds awaits his arrival back to reality, “All right, time to get up, asshole.” Kyle playful insults run past Stan’s brain as he leans over to enter the night.
Stan can't remember the times when the car paused for Tolkien and Cartman, or the words sent as a goodbye, or the other fiercely cold breezes that take over the inside of the car, negating any warm AC that circulated before. It seems as if his mind purposefully ignores all events that don't affect him, a blissful ignorance of all occurrences.
Stan's legs shake as the pair head towards the doorstep, just barely balancing himself when walking over uneven cracks in the decaying ground. “You sure you can get upstairs like that? You need any help?” A foreign hand gently pats Stan’s back, aiding his back with structural support.
“Nah, I’m sure I’ll be alright… I think.” His back arches rearwards in an attempt to unpoison his posture.
“Okay… But I’m trusting you to not fuck up.” A point of affirmation directs itself on the bridge of Stan’s nose, “Don’t make me stay out here for another 15 minutes if you fail a backflip or something.” His tone is playful, joking, even; but it still holds a feeling of genuine care. A snide remark that bears good intentions. A couple steps await a short stay to creak open the aging front door.
A wave signals Kyle’s goodbye, “Bye dude! And by the way-” Stan’s head whips around, “Maybe, just maybe, guitar isn’t THAT bad.”
A drunken smile stretches across Stan’s drooping face, “Exactly. I knew that I was right, you juuusst had to snap out of it.” He guffaws at his remark. Exhaling to send a message, “Bye dude!” The door slams. Stan is unwelcomingly embraced by the sight of his father, an alcoholic disgrace. Stan is ashamed to share a name with the man that slumps before him. Yes, they are both drunk, but at least Stan didn’t destroy his family. At least he didn’t ruin the lives of his wife and children. At least others don't dread being compared to him. He thinks… The last statement drills into his spiraling mind, denting the fragile barrier protecting sanity from existentialism.
Raging thoughts intrude Stan’s mind. Banging and ringing of the same ideas.
Are people faking liking me ?
Do they just pity me?
Do my friends volunteer to be in my company or do they just do it on a dare?
Has everyone been lying to me?
A disoriented version of the previous man rushes upstairs. With every comforting thought comes 5 that intrude Stan’s hope. Details in his surroundings bleed away, leaving what barely reminisces his home. Gentle stomps signify his loss from reality. His separation from what is real and what he fathoms into a world of unease. He doesn’t even remember the transition from the hallway to his room, and before he knows it, he’s laying - stomach-down - on his unkept bed sheets.
The walls melt, his soul leaves his body behind, but he still lays awake. Daydreaming. To escape from the unforgiving voices. A dream that lulls his mind. He sits. With Kyle. Nothing absurd happens. Just the two.
No words. No activity. No setting. An empty void full of alleviation. Just his presence is enough. The only one who truly understands him. His best friend. But the word best friend isn't enough. They feel stronger than best friends. The strongest platonic love Stan has ever felt. And probably ever will feel.
Aslumber. Stan lies there. Unconscious in the night. Dreaming, fleeting dreams.