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Summers in South Park were always one of two things:
Still cold, not exactly a real summer. The snow would melt and maybe wouldn’t come back for a few months, but it wasn’t warm enough to go swimming or run around without at least a light jacket. It felt more like what other places would probably call a cooler spring. But at least school was out.
Or:
Sticky, hot, closer to burning in hell than being a real summer. AC units going out through the whole town, but at least the heating and cooling people are getting business. Everyone’s rushing to buy fans, but the fans only blow the hot air around so it’s really just in their heads if it helps. It’s so hot that people are jumping into Stark’s Pond or spraying each other with hoses to cool off, and somebody has bought all of the ice cream from the corner store and is selling it out of their basement for double the price.
Eric Cartman was no stranger to either one of them. He always preferred the first option, when he didn’t have to worry about sweating through every fucking t-shirt he’d ever owned within the timespan of a week. But, looking back, the memories from the second option were always the ones that stood out the most.
Like the one year it was so hot that Kenny and his siblings spent most of the summer bouncing between Eric’s, Kyle’s, and Stan’s houses, just so they wouldn’t all die of heatstroke. That was the same summer they found out Kevin McCormick and Shelley Marsh were something of a thing, and Randy and Stuart got into it like it was really all that important. Eric remembered thinking that what was really important was all the times that Kenny actually had died from heatstroke, because he wouldn’t take that stupid fucking parka off, but nobody else ever seemed to recognize the importance of it like he did. Not that he ever mentioned it. He regretted it.
There were many things that Eric Cartman both did and did not do as a kid that he regretted. He could recognize that now, after being forced to drop out of college and then being sent to a mental hospital just outside of Denver for the good part of a year. He could recognize it, but he still wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. But he was working on it. He was working on it, but the school probably didn’t want him back (which was okay, because he didn’t really want to go back either), so that’s why he found himself back in South Park at the very start of the summer. And he could already tell that it was going to be one of the too-cool-to-feel-like-summer summers. Something had to be done about that.
It was warm enough, at least, that he could drive with the windows down. And the sun was bright enough that he could wear sunglasses and not look like one of those douchebags who wore sunglasses indoors and at night. Not that Eric Cartman, of all people, particularly cared about looking like a douchebag. The Best Damn Thing blasted through the crackly speakers in his car and familiar sights of the town he grew up in finally started to come into view, and Eric started to feel like maybe things could be okay again.
‘Where are the hopes? Where are the dreams? My Cinderella story scene…’
He had to stop at the gas station just outside of town to get snacks. Because he was going home, seeing his mom for the first time in what felt like ever, and he knew that their house was only ever loaded with snacks because he lived in it and would threaten her if it wasn’t. He hadn’t lived there in what felt like ever, so obviously, he needed a restock. The door chimed as he stepped inside, beelining it to the aisles of chips and snack cakes. Eric didn’t know how long he’d be home, maybe forever, but he could make a trip to the actual grocery store later. He dumped an armful of snacks onto the counter, and glanced up to stare the adult version of his childhood best friend right in the face.
Kenny McCormick somehow looked both the exact same and completely different. His hair had grown, and he’d gained a few piercings, but he still had the same wide blue eyes and freckles and gap between his teeth. And the same stupid fucking parka. “…Cartman?”
“Hey, Kinny,” Eric greeted, like the last time he’d seen him was yesterday, not two years ago.
But Kenny was having none of that. “Holy shit! Cartman!” he cheered, before launching himself over the counter and knocking Eric down with the force of his attack— or, hug. “Oh my fucking god, dude, I thought you were, like, dead!”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Kinny,” Eric pretended to grumble, pretended to not be just as ecstatic as the blonde hanging off of him like a leach. “Obviously I’m not fucking dead.”
Thankfully, the store was empty. There was only one other car in the lot, so Eric imagined it must belong to Kenny. He hadn’t gotten a very good look at it. Kenny sat up, grabbing at Eric’s hand to pull him up, too. “Well- now, it's obvious,” he murmured, “but it wasn’t obvious when I sent you, like, a whole dissertation worth of texts and got no responses back.”
Right. No phones in the hospital. And he’d kind of deleted all of his old contacts in the middle of an episode, anyway.
“Well maybe I didn’t want your dissertation,” Eric lied. The amused shine in Kenny’s eyes proved that he knew it was a lie, too. “…Got a new phone. Lost my contacts. I didn’t even see your texts come in at all.”
“Sure,” Kenny said, not giving away whether he believed it or not. Regardless, he was grinning, showing off that stupid fucking gap in his teeth, and Eric finally actually felt home. “What are you doing back, dude? I thought you were aiming for L.A.”
Eric snatched his hand back, finally, and stood up. Kenny followed suit. “Changed my path, Kinny,” he answered vaguely, deciding he wasn’t quite ready to explain the past year of therapists and testing and diagnoses and medications. Kenny wouldn’t judge, if he could say that truth about anyone it would definitely be Kenny, but Eric still hadn’t even admitted that there was something wrong with him to anyone other than his therapists.
“Well— it’s real good to see you,” Kenny told him, hopping back over the counter to actually get to work. He scanned Eric’s goodies with practiced ease. “I’m glad you’re back. Fucking, like– everyone left, and it seems like they all forgot how to actually use their phones or something. I know Kyle’s probably drowning in school or whatever. But Stan-”
“Drowning in alcohol?”
Kenny scoffed, rolling his eyes to pretend it wasn’t kind of funny, but the sparkle of mischief in his eyes gave him away. Kenny’s eyes always gave him away. Eric was glad to see it hadn’t changed. “Ha ha, asshole,” he said anyway. “He got sober. That’s what he said, at least. Something about an outpatient rehab.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. Huh.”
Eric slapped his card down on the counter before Kenny could read the total out loud. Kenny swiped it, handed it back, and slid his plastic bag towards him.
“…I fucking missed you, dude,” Kenny said.
“That’s gay.”
“You’re gay. You missed me too.”
“What the fuck ever,” Eric said, because they both knew it was true. “I’m leaving. My phone’s on again, or whatever, so if you want to text me another dissertation…”
Kenny grinned. “Get out of my store.”
Eric grinned back, and flipped him off on the way out. He was fucking home.
When Kyle Broflovski got back to his apartment, he could have screamed.
The good thing about having roommates was that the rent and utilities weren’t entirely on you. The bad thing about having roommates was quite literally everything else.
After his last day of classes for the school year, Kyle had been looking forward to the ability to come home and just relax for a bit. But no. Of course not. Because he came home to a mess and to the lightbulbs out because someone always forgot to turn them off. He could scream. Or kill someone, maybe.
His heavy footsteps echoed against the hardwood floors as he stormed about the living area, snatching up the small trash can to toss away empty soda cans and grease covered pizza boxes. He threw open the curtains to let in the outside light, but it was late enough now that only the pale glow of the moon could shine through. It could have been pretty, if it didn't light up the couch which had a new tear in it.
He was wearing himself paper thin. He knew this. He’d known it for the better part of the semester, really. He’d never admit it to anyone other than himself, probably, but this was not what he wanted. None of this was what he wanted. All of this was because his father insisted, because his mother looked so happy every time they’d Skype and play catch up. Skype, because Kyle still hadn’t made a trip back home yet. They begged him to for every holiday, for every birthday, for any semi-important event. But Kyle just wasn’t sure he could face them for real and still keep up the smile and the lie that he loved Harvard Law School.
It was another hour before he actually got to lay down. He’d finished cleaning up after his roommates who, thankfully, weren’t even home at the moment, and then went to dissociate in the shower until the water ran cold. It was late by the time Kyle’s head hit the pillow, but he’d learned to prefer that, anyway. The brain stopped being quite as receptive by ten, or so he’d read in an online study, so he always tried to let the rest of the night be his fuck-around time. And what that usually meant was doom scrolling on Twitter until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, but an out of place notification on his home screen stopped him before he could even get to the little bird icon.
A text. From Kenny.
They hadn’t talked in a few months. Granted, that was more Kyle’s fault than Kenny’s. Kenny sent him random, stupid things every so often. Little thinking of yous, references to old inside jokes and pretending to mock a concerned mother while checking to make sure he was taking care of himself. It was sweet, just like how Kenny had always been sweet, and Kyle felt a little guilty about how few of those texts he actually responded to.
But this text was different. Or, series of texts, because they kept coming in.
That was the first time he’d ever gotten something like that from Kenny. His parents, near weekly. Even Ike, sometimes. But never Kenny, never anyone else. Kyle almost wondered if something was wrong. He texted back immediately, this time.
Cartman.
Admittedly, Kyle had imagined that Kenny and Cartman would have stayed in touch this whole time. He supposed everyone else might’ve thought the same about himself and Stan, though. Stan…
Jesus. Kyle couldn’t even remember the last time he talked to Stan.
He’d tried, for a while, but Stan’s texts just started coming in increasingly jumbled. Typos, not making any sense, desperate mood swings. And Kyle couldn’t handle his best friend’s alcoholism on top of trying to make good grades and keep up his appearances in school. After one particularly intense late night drunk call, Kyle might’ve told him to leave him alone. And Stan might’ve taken it to heart.
Kyle was startled by another text coming in. And after a surprisingly short bit of consideration, he replied.
It was summer. He was out of school. He could not handle his fucking roommates anymore. And sure, he wasn’t sure if he could handle Eric Fucking Cartman, but at least that was comfortably (frustratingly) familiar. So, before Kenny could even get out a response, Kyle looked up flights and booked a ticket for the first one, then tossed his phone aside and started packing.
He was going home.
Stan Marsh woke up to the sun streaming in through the window, and Mary Jane’s coarse tongue against his cheek to beg for breakfast. Better than any alarm clock. Mary Jane, the sweet little border collie his dad had gotten as a farm dog, who Stan stole and took with him as soon as he dropped out of college and moved in with his sister and her boyfriend. It wasn’t the most ideal living situation, he supposed, but it was better than back with Randy — and certainly better than back in the college dorms.
“Alright, alright,” he murmured, pushing himself up. Mary Jane got the hint, darting to the door and running an excited circle as she waited for his bare feet to hit the cool wooden floor.
A glance at the digital clock told him that Shelley was probably still asleep, and that Kevin was getting ready to leave for work. Back in middle school, he remembered thinking of them as a weird couple. In truth, they were perfect for each other. Kevin was just laid back enough that he mellowed her out, and Shelley made Kevin feel like he belonged and had a purpose. And maybe it was still a little strange, but it was sweet. And maybe it meant he had two older siblings to pick on him, but it was all good natured and non-violent now.
Stan followed his dog up the stairs and into the kitchen. He was camping out in the basement for now, because it was spacious and finished and Shelley had only been keeping old boxes that she didn’t want to go through down there anyway. The day Stan dropped out of college, she was the first one he’d called. Drunk, crying, a mess, begging for help. So she’d helped him. Got him into rehab, talked Kevin into helping her rid their house of alcohol, cleaned out the old boxes. Kevin picked him up from the dorms, drove him back to Tegridy Farms and stood guard against Randy as they hauled his bed and the rest of his belongings (and Mary Jane) to their ranch house up in Wyoming.
Today was his off day, and he wasn’t really sure how he’d spend it. He started a pot of coffee — a whole pot, because Kevin could drink over half of it by himself — and while it brewed, he began putting together Mary Jane’s breakfast platter.
“That dog eats better’n I ever have,” Kevin’s voice greeted from behind, not unkindly, the soft patter of his own bare feet coming in.
Stan turned, offering a half shrug. “Dad fed her like shit,” he said. “I have to make up for the harm done.”
Kevin understood. Shelley had spent the last few years undoing all the harm that Kevin’s dad had done, too. But there was a lot more to that than there was to just fixing a diet.
It was still weird, seeing and talking to Kevin McCormick more than he did his old friends. He’d lost contact with Kyle and Cartman entirely. Cartman he hadn’t exactly anticipated, but wasn’t all too shocked by, either. Cartman had all these big huge plans, and would stop at nothing to achieve his goals. But Kyle?
Well, he tried not to think about Kyle too much. Not anymore.
He and Kenny still talked. Kind of. Less talking, more sending memes back and forth every few weeks. Stan mentioned how he was getting sober, and Kenny mentioned how he was so close to having enough saved up to warrant looking into apartments. But they didn’t really talk. In fact, Stan wasn’t even entirely sure if Kenny knew Stan was living with his brother.
God. Being an adult fucking sucked.
Stan called Mary Jane over, and she already knew the drill; she sat obediently, waited until her tray was placed on the floor, and eagerly ate up her breakfast. Far more nutritious than the cup of black coffee and half an untoasted bagel that Stan planned to have. Maybe Kevin did have a point.
“I’m working a double tonight,” Kevin filled the silence with idle chatter, pouring himself a mug of coffee. He reached to fill one for Stan, too. “Shell already knows…”
“I’ll remind her,” Stan offered as he trailed off, nodding thanks when a mug was handed his way.
Kevin visibly relaxed. Small things like that made all the difference. Stan had come to notice them quickly. It made him think about all the signs he must have missed in Kenny, all the things he could have – should have – been doing to make life just a little easier, a little less stressful. He thought about the stupid tumblr post he’d sent to Kenny last week and wondered if he’d ever get the chance to try again, knowing what he knew now.
“I’m gonna take Mary Jane for a walk,” Stan said, bending to pick up the licked-clean platter. “Need me to grab anything? Will you still be here when I get back?”
Kevin stretched, thinking, then shook his head. “Think we’re good. Went out yesterday for a few things while you were working,” he answered. “I’ll be heading out in ten.”
“Okay. So I’ll see you… tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
Stan gave him a smile, and Kevin gave him one back, and then he padded back downstairs to grab his phone and shoes. He was just going out for an early morning walk, and they sort of lived out in the middle of nowhere. Nobody cared if he went out in the t-shirt and flannel pants he called pajamas. Kevin (and the coffee pot) was gone when Stan returned to the kitchen, so there wasn’t anything left to say as he leashed Mary Jane up and slipped on his headphones to head outside.
Morning walks were his favorite. Not many people were out, except the old lady down the block who was always out watering her plants and telling Stan he ought to get more sleep. It was easy to get lost in nature, in his music. He let Mary Jane decide their route, and they’d walk until one or both of them started to get tired of it.
At least, that’s how it usually went. But then his phone rang. Stan didn’t usually answer phone calls, unless it was Shelley or Kevin or his mom. But this just felt different. Instinctively, he picked up before even glancing at the caller information. “…Hello?”
“Hey, hippie. Look—”
“Cartman?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, can’t even let a guy speak, can you?”
Stan was stunned into silence.
“…Anyway. I’m in town for a while. And Kinny thinks we should round up the old gang and catch up or whatever.”
Holy shit.
“The, uh– the ‘old gang’ meaning, like. Kyle, too.”
Cartman heaved a heavy sigh, “Yes, Stan, your gay ass stupid ginger boyfriend is coming too.”
Stan had a billion questions. Did Kyle know he was coming, too? Was Kyle for sure coming? Did Cartman or Kenny know that it’d been almost a year since the last time he and Kyle even texted, let alone called? What was spurring this on, all of the sudden?
But he didn’t ask any of them.
He was off work today. He had enough PTO to cover a small trip, and the staff at the shelter he worked for was kind and understanding and gave him plenty of grace when it came to needing a bit of extra time off.
“Um, sure, okay,” he said, the words leaving his mouth before he could think about them. “Just– Just let me know when. I can catch a bus home.”