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“Ay! Hippie! The Jew had to stay for basketball so I’m here with your buttfucking homework-“
The sound of sobbing made him stop abruptly in the trek up Stan’s stairs. Motherfucker. If the asshole was so sick that he was CRYING holed up in his room on top of missing school, Cartman didn’t want anything to do with it.
Sighing, he opened the door.
Oh. Fuck.
This was a depression cave if he ever saw one. Old laundry and papers, sheet music and half empty chip bags, various other trash and empty bottles littered the floor. And wrapped in blankets, clad in a massive hoodie, red faced and leaking tears and snot in front of the television, was Stan Marsh.
“Dude.” Cartman started. Stan didn’t look up. “I thought you were sick. Not… sick.”
And Stan still didn’t look up. Goddamnit. The fuck was he supposed to do? Suddenly the meticulously organized folder Kyle had given him seemed to weigh a thousand pounds in his hand.
In all seventeen years of his life, Eric Cartman had only seen something like this once, back in the fourth grade. He was a little asshole as a kid. Hell, he was still an asshole when he thought he’d get a kick out of it, but between the therapy and actual self help, he’d found empathy, and begun to actually care for his friends. But that didn’t mean he had any idea what to do about what he just walked in on.
He turned his attention to the screen. A yellow lab was lying on the forest floor next to a dark haired teenager that was in pretty gnarly shape. The stack of dvds on the desk had a distinct theme: a boy and his dog. Oh.
“Hey, Stan, I saw Sparky in the backyard. You want him to keep you company?”
Stan shook his head at the offer. “I don’t want him to see me like this.” He wiped his face and finally looked at Eric. “Thanks for bringing my school shit, dude. You can go if you want.”
Part of him wanted to just leave. But the other part was worried. Not because of any genuine human compassion, he told himself, but because Kyle was no fun to rip on when Stan was out of commission. Cartman cleared a space and sat down.
“Does your bitchass boyfriend know?”
“No.” Stan glued his eyes back to the screen. “I let him think I have the flu or something. His immune system is shit so he usually just leaves my stuff on the kitchen table and I go get it after.”
“And your mom?” Cartman knew better than to ask about Randy. The dumbass didn’t give a shit about anything that didn’t affect his stupid weed farm.
“Wants to take me to a psychiatrist.” Stan sighed.
That really wouldn’t be a bad idea, but Eric wasn’t in the mood for an argument. Instead, he looked at the TV screen. “Is this “Old Yeller” or whatever?”
Stan actually laughed. It was half assed, but still a laugh. “No, dude. It’s “Far From Home: The Adventures Of Yellow Dog”. “Old Yeller” is the one where the dog gets rabies.”
“Why are you watching a movie with a stupid ass name?”
“Uh, because it’s fucking good?” Stan managed a watery smile. Eric didn’t know shit about depression, but if he could get his friend talking, that was something.
“Alright, asshole.” He picked up the stack of movies. “What do you like about this one?”
Stan hesitated, but there was a glint in his red rimmed eyes. “You care about spoilers?”
Cartman snorted. “I’m not gonna watch your gayass dog movies, buttplug, now what’s this shit about, and how’s it gonna end?”
This was really more Kyle’s territory, but if Stan didn’t want his boyfriend to know he was going through a depressive episode, then that wasn’t his problem. At least he could keep the stupid hippie from killing himself, offer some kind of camaraderie. Only because Kyle would be annoying as hell if that happened, though, of course.
“Um.” Stan looked a little embarrassed. “So, this is one of my favorites. The kid and the dog get stranded in the forest, and they have to eat bugs and shit to survive, and the kid gets hurt, but the dog never leaves his side. There’s, uh, this scene where they’re getting rescued, but the dog gets swept away in the river.”
Cartman sorted through the dvd cases absently. Lassie, Where The Red Fern Grows, Homeward Bound, White Fang, shit like that. “Jesus, bitch. That’s gotta be making your Sad sack ass more depressed.”
“What? Sad sack? What the- never mind. It has a happy ending. The dog finds his way home.”
God, at least he was talking, seemed a little more aware of the world. “So that’s why you like it?”
“Yeah, dude. Kyle likes this one too, because they filmed it in the Pacific Northwest and he likes the big trees and-“ He looked down. “I should talk to Kyle.”
Cartman definitely wanted to rip on him for wallowing in his own sadness, but the sooner he got this loser to be a person again, the better. “No shit, asshole. Your fucking fleshlight is even more intolerable without you to hold him back. You need to come back to school.”
He’d never say it out loud, but their weird little group just wasn’t the same without their reluctant leader. They were “Stan’s Gang” and even with college looming on the horizon, with adult life just around the corner, Cartman wanted to hang on to the last bit of childhood they still had. And that meant absolutely roasting Kenny and Marj, pissing Kyle off, and annoying Stan. He couldn’t annoy Stan if the loser didn’t get out of the sadsack and get back to the swing of things.
Stan groaned. “I know, Cartman. I’ll try next week.”
That wasn’t about to stand. “Nope, you’ll go tomorrow.”
It was obvious by Stan’s expression that he knew Cartman meant it. He had his ways of getting what he wanted, and what he wanted now was for Sir Sad Bitch to get back to normal. He relented.
“Fine. I’ll be at the bus stop in the morning.”
Cartman stood. “You’d fucking better be. Also, I’m telling your little prince of Egypt that he can come over. It’s not like he’s gonna catch your Sad Bitch Disease.”
He paused at the door. “Do not watch Old Yeller. I’m sick of you crying.”
Stan laughed, and Cartman let out a breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding. Once he’d left the house, he called Kyle, leaving a voicemail when he didn’t pick up. Basketball practice, right.
“Hey, dickhole, so when you get done trying to be a jock or whatever, go to your loser husband’s house. Apparently he’s not sick. Well, he’s sick, but not, like, physically, or anything. Not that I care. But like, don’t be surprised if he makes you watch those movies about a boy and his dog. Also check your levels after practice, you weakling. And ice your knee because I’m tired of you complaining that it hurts when you could just quit basketball and not bother me with your fucked up joints. Okay, uh, don’t let your emo ass bitch blow you off. Bye.”
Goddamnit. Maybe he did fucking care.