Chapter Text
Stan was ready to get out of this sweaty ass stupid cow costume.
The only, ONLY reason he had agreed to be Butch The South Park Bull during basketball season was because Kenny, who wore the mascot suit in the fall, had decided to join the team and was desperate for a replacement.
Eh, at least the gig had its perks. Particularly an up close and personal view of South Park High School’s very own free throw king (and Stan’s boyfriend), Kyle Broflovski.
Kyle had been into the sport for as long as he could remember, and it showed whenever he took to the court. While Stan had cycled through various sports and extracurriculars, none of which ever lasted particularly long, (nothing really held his interest other than Kyle for more than a season at a time), his childhood super best friend had chosen his niche at the age of nine and stuck to it. And seven years later, he was a teenage basketball GOD.
As much as Stan loved to watch Kyle play, he was grateful the game was almost over. The thing that worried him, though, was how close the score was. Too close. They had the lead, but just barely, and their opponent could close the gap at any second. He turned his attention from the countdown to the redhead currently whizzing down the court.
Kyle was focused, head all the way in the game, unlike himself, who was so distracted watching his boyfriend that he didn’t realize he was being spoken to until a green and white Pom Pom hit him in the stupid cow head.
“Stan!” Bebe Stevens, head cheerleader and long time friend of his, was jumping up and down in front of him.
“There’s a minute left on the clock, stop eye fucking Broflovski and get over here! We need you for lifts!”
Stan rolled his eyes but turned towards the cheering crowd, waving to the masses, doing his job to get them hyped up for the final play. He ran through the motions of lifting up his cheerleader friends, finishing with the crowd favorite of one girl on each arm. It was his version of Butch’s signature move, punctuated by a backflip when he set Bebe and Heidi down. The flip was courtesy of his middle school parkour phase, not particularly easy to do with the low visibility the mascot head provided, but it was still safer than Kenny’s signature during football season. Kenny’s Butch liked to get shot out of a cannon.
Stan turned his attention back to the game, and to Kyle, who stolen the ball from the other team and was fighting for access to the basket. Only a few seconds left. The crowd, cheerleaders, and one lovesick teenage boy in a cow suit were all going wild, jumping up and down, screaming, Stan yelling Kyle’s name and his boyfriend faked to the side and went for the shot.
A perfect, fluid layup, nothing but net just as the buzzer sounded, solidifying South Park’s win.
The stands exploded, and the court did too, players and fans cheering and clapping each other on the back, opposing teams telling each other “good game” and laughing. All except one.
Because Kyle Broflovski was on the floor.
“…Kyle?” Stan ripped off the head of his costume and rushed onto the court, where a certain star player was crumpled over, clutching his left knee. He looked up at Stan, face tight.
“Dude. I think I just fucked up my leg.”
Shit. The others on the court were starting to gather around, having noticed what was going on.
“Oh, fuck, man. Where’s coach?” Kenny joined Stan at Kyle’s side, scanning the chaos for their coach.
Tolkien nodded once. “He went to talk to the other team’s coach, I’ll go get him!”
“Thanks, T.” Stan turned back to Kyle. “How bad is it, babe? Think you can make it to the bench?”
“Mmhm.” Aided by himself and Kenny, Kyle stood, inciting a round of applause from the people who had gathered. When he tried to put weight on his left side, though, he grimaced. “I can hop, I guess.”
The trio made it to the bench, where Wendy had already procured a bag of ice. “Are you alright, Kyle?” She got a thumbs up in response, but Stan could read his boyfriend like a book. His mind was obviously going a thousand miles a minute and he was fighting not to get pissed off in front of everyone.
“What happened, kid?” Stan looked up to see Turner, Kyle’s basketball coach, had arrived. The man crossed his arms and frowned. “Your knee?”
Kyle nodded. “It just, like, gave out when I landed. I’m not sure what happened, honestly.”
“Is it weight bearing at all?”
“Some. Doesn’t feel great, but I can stand, at least. I don’t think it’s serious.”
It probably was a lot worse than he was letting on, if Stan had to guess. Stan watched as the coach went through a sort of examination, prodding Kyle’s leg and checking for any telltale signs of torn ligaments or something. Finally he nodded, looking at least somewhat relieved.
“Your parents still out of town, kid?”
“Yes, sir, they’ll be back with my brother tonight. Stan’s taking me home.” Stan gave Kyle’s hand a squeeze. His boyfriend’s parents and brother had gone a few counties over for Ike’s mathlete competition, but they were due back that evening. Stan and Kyle alternated who drove to school and sports every day, and Stan found himself thanking fate that it was his day to drive.
The coach nodded again. “Okay. I’m thinking the knees just a sprain, but keep an eye on it tonight, ice, elevation, all that. It might be a good idea to get checked out by a doctor tomorrow, especially if it’s feeling worse than it does now.”
“Yes sir. Thanks.”
Coach Turner gave him a pat on the back and told the rest of the team to hit the showers and get off his basketball court, and Kenny ruffled Kyle’s hair playfully.
“I better rally if I’m gonna be ready for that date. You guys keep me updated, yeah?” With that, Kenny scampered off to the locker room.
With the gym mostly cleared out by that point, Stan leaned forward to plant a kiss to Kyle’s cheek. “I’m gonna change and grab our shit real quick, then we’ll get you to the truck, okay?” He turned to Wendy, who had lingered to gather the spirit posters the squad had made.
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Stanley.”
Abandoning the stank ass cow suit and snagging his and his boyfriend’s backpacks, Stan went back to the gym to collect said injured boyfriend. He waved a goodbye to Wendy and began the frustrating process of helping Kyle to his beat up old pickup. Even if Kyle would have let him, (which Stan very much doubted he would have), carrying someone along with both of your bags wouldn’t exactly be an easy task, so he settled on draping Kyle’s arm across his shoulders and supporting him as he half limped, half hopped across the parking lot.
One of the things about living in a small town is that you were never really more than a few minutes away from home, something Stan was grateful for as he pulled into Kyle’s driveway.
Kyle, who had been largely silent on the short drive, moved to open the car door, but Stan’s (lame ass, hopeless romantic ass) brain had popped out an idea.
“Wait! Hold on!” He jumped out of the truck, running to the passenger side and holding his arms out, grinning. “Okay!”
Rolling his eyes, Kyle scoffed. “You are NOT carrying me up the steps like I’m a Disney fucking princess, dude.”
Stan leaned against the open door, turning on the “how can you say no to these baby blues” face, which he always did when trying to get his way with his boyfriend.
Kyle shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Heh. He was cute when he was annoyed. “Don’t even start with the face, Stanathan. I can walk the like FIVE steps to my front door.”
Oh yeah, he was wearing him down. “I know Ky.” He cocked his head to the side, fixing a soft, thoughtful gaze on the teenage boy who took up so much of his heart. “But I’d feel better if you didn’t push it. Please?”
“…goddamnit. Fine, asshole.”
Victory! Stan carefully scooped up his boyfriend, careful not to jostle Kyle’s bad knee as he nudged the door shut.
Kyle wasn’t the easiest person to carry bridal style, even when he was cooperating. He was lanky as hell, for one, all long limbs and basketball muscle, and wasn’t much shorter than Stan, who still had yet to hit his last growth spurt. Add to that the awkward way he was having to position his legs to avoid the injured one, and it had to be a comical sight.
Still, Stan was pretty damn strong for a teenage boy, well built from being an athlete and work on his dad’s stupid fucking farm on “Randy Weekends”. Thank god his mom had moved back into their old house after the divorce; Stan didn’t know how much longer he could have lasted without Kyle next door.
Once inside, Stan gingerly lowered his boyfriend onto the couch. “You okay?”
Kyle gave a small smile. “Yeah, thanks, dude.”
Returning the expression, Stan moved back towards the door. “I’m gonna get our bags out of my truck, then I’ll snag you an ice pack, ok?”
A few minutes later he was in front of the fridge, the sound of Kyle flipping through channels floating from the living room. “Hey, you want anything else while I’m in here? We should get some sugar in you, dude.”
“I could go for a KMBS.” Was the reply. Stan smiled. The KMBS. The Kyle Matthew Broflovski Special. He reached into the cabinet for Kyle’s favorite cup: a comically massive Terrance & Phillip tumbler he had won in a giveaway when they were five. This was a crucial ingredient.
The next step was to fill the cup to the brim with orange juice and EXACTLY seven ice cubes. Finally, top with a sprinkle of salt and drink.
Yep, Kyle salted his orange juice. Stan had no idea why, or when, that had started but as far back as he could remember that was how the KMBS was done. It HAD to be in that specific cup and HAD to be exactly seven ice cubes or it wasn’t the KMBS. It was just juice.
For extra flair, Stan hummed the old Terrance & Phillip theme song as he danced his way into the room to present Kyle with his drink and ice pack. The redhead rolled his eyes, but smiled and thanked him anyway. He must have really needed that juice, too, because he drained half the cup in one gulp. Stan couldn’t help but chuckle.
Kyle scowled at him. “What’s so funny, Staniel?”
Stan just laughed harder. “You’re just cute, dude.” He placed the ice on Kyle’s knee, making sure to be gentle.
“Nuh uh, I’m still all sweaty and gross.”
“So am I, and you know I don’t care, anyway.” Stan gestured for Kyle to lift his head up so he could lay with his head in Stan’s lap. Once situated, he ran his fingers through those bouncy red curls, leaning down to give his boyfriend a soft kiss.
“How’s the leg feeling?”
“Mm” Kyle closed his eyes, melting into Stan’s lap. “Hurts.”
“I’m sorry, Ky.”
“ ‘s okay.”
——-
And that was how the rest of the Broflovski family found them a few hours later: their oldest son asleep in Stan’s lap, with a swollen knee and still in his basketball uniform. At least, they HAD been asleep, until a particularly loud “WHAT WHAT WHAT?!?!?” had ended their naptime.
“Jesus CHRIST, ma!”