Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stan stares at the empty page, tapping his pen in dull beats against the desk.

He’d really thought the words would come easily. After all, it'd be just some sentences, nothing too much. Final words to leave behind, write down his side of things, why he is done with life.

Life, if he could even call it that, had felt like background noise. Like it was just static, a distant sound he couldn’t tune into, or tune out of. It’s been this way for a long time.

The day Stan turned ten, the cranes closed around him and took him out of the claw machine only for him to end up in a nearby trashcan because Stan wasn’t the toy anyone wanted.  It wasn’t sadness, really, just flat stupor. He had always known he would end up here, ever since he opened his eyes on the first morning of his tenth year around around the Sun.

Music hasn’t been a part of his life for so long, too. Anything he turned on started bombarding his ears with shit. The most contact he has had with anything musical was the presence of the guitar building up dust in the corner of the room. TV shows, movies, were all shit on screen. Shit, shit, shit...

He might reach around his ass, shit into his hand and smear it across the paper as his suicide note, and it would say everything that needed saying.

But Stan knew, now even at his, arguably, lowest point, he owed some kind of closure to someone.

Not to the few people still around him now— because they wouldn’t grieve for the person he’d grown to be. But to the 9-year-old Stan, the bright-eyed kid who once might have mattered, who would have been missed. This Stan would be gone soon, and the world will only mourn the child he used to be.

This Stan, who got old, owed him that much, at least.

Yet now, as he tries to write, the page stays blank. 

His brain had been numb for so long, had grown to be so empty, even writing a few words seems like an impossible task.

Stan can’t help but think about them— fragments of memories scattered across his mind.

All those friends he once had; the best friend he thought would stand by him until the ends of the world, the girl once he’d really, really liked...All those people he’d cut off years ago wouldn’t care, but maybe reaching out would shake something loose in him.

But still he can’t find it in himself to come up with a reason to reach out, any reason that feels good enough, something convincing.

Annoyed, he gets up from his desk and walks toward his closet.

The emptiness inside reflects just how little he’s accumulated in recent years. Since he turned ten, there haven’t been any memorable moments to tuck away. Instead, in the back of the closet, hidden away in a big storage box, are the remnants of what's left of his youth.

He drags the box out just enough to open it without trouble and sits down next to it.

Inside are his junior hockey stick, an old Guitar Hero controller, his well-worn Toolshed and Ranger Marshwalker suits, and that stupid 100% HEMP t-shirt. His Peruvian flute band costume is still there, along with a lot of Terrance & Phillip junk. He even finds pages of handwritten lyrics— something he used to do obsessively whenever he saw the opportunity, whether it be a gay little song to bring his friend back, or something to stop bullying and maybe get rich and famous along the way only to end up naked and jackin' it in San Diego— and a pile of notebooks.

Stan takes some of those out, setting them aside.

His hand digs up the old hat that used to be glued to his head. The red puffball is worn and lost a bit of its shape, the yarn frayed and unraveling at the edges. His old button-up coat is right under the beanie, folded neatly and placed with care. Stan keeps digging through various junk and trash, until he finally sees the bottom of the box. He freezes when he spots it.

An empty whiskey bottle. The very first one.

He quickly looks away, his stomach tightens in discomfort.

It’s been a long time since he’s drank. Doesn't feel like it has been. 

Time has become a blur, a cycle of the same dull day repeating over and over again.

He can’t even tell if he’s gone through any withdrawal— he remembers his mother fearing that part when she sent him to rehab after the breakdown. He vaguely remembers feeling physically awful, ill all the time, but his memories of that time are hazy, just weight that settled on him afterwards that’s been worse. Because, no matter what he tried, not even alcohol, a substance made to help people numb their troubles, has been enough to fix what’s wrong with him. 

Even now, sometimes, looking at bottles brings that sharp, bitter taste back on his tongue, and a pang of hurt deep in his liver.

He leans back against the closet wall, pulling a notebook onto his lap.

Flipping through its pages, he searches for something, anything, that might jog a memory or sparks something in his foggy mind. Something to get him off the ground, figuratively and, he hopes, soon enough, literally.

The pages are yellowed, corners dog-eared from years of handling but still cared for it be to be filled with a life once lived. Planned trips, battle plans (elves vs. humans, elves and humans vs. Nazi gingers, cowboys vs. Indians vs. pirates...), innovative insults, stupidly drawn figures. All of it is there, written in the messy scrawl of a nine-year-old Stan.

Finally, he finds what he’s looking for in the fourth notebook.

It’s a map. Technically, it’s a route.

A scribbled, exaggerated path drawn by his younger hand, alongside his band of boys. Back when they were kids, they all talked about a road trip when one of them finally got a driver's license. They imagined escaping South Park, seeing the world beyond their small town.

The route is marked with a few key destinations like Denver, the Grand Canyon— and then a bunch of random spots scattered across Colorado, Arizona, Utah and New Mexico.

It was a fantasy plan, they spent hours discussing and crafting when they thought anything was possible. They were so sure that once they were old enough to drive, and escape the hellhole that is South Park, life would be a grand adventure on an endless concrete road.

Stan runs his finger over the worn page, his eyes tracing the red ink of his younger self, which contrasts with Kenny’s messy blue scribbles.

It’s a map, but it’s more than that. It’s a snapshot of who they used to be— kids with big ideas, no matter how absurd or dumb.

He can almost hear the arguments again just looking at Kenny’s stubborn handwriting fighting with Stan’s desire to avoid tourist traps. Kyle’s and Cartman’s messy scrawls in constant warfare all over the map.

Stan:  NO dude not there. its dumb asf.

Kenny’s counter: y the hell not 

Stan : i ts a tourist trap obviously stop being a loser.

Cartman (scribbled over Kyle’s destination mark): kyle u can just go judaean dessert if u really wanna see one 

Kyle (over Cartman): ur an idiot gc is not a desert. & its spelled with one S fatboy but ofc u cant help but think of ur stomach

Cartman (scribble): whatever jew im not going to some dusty overrated glory hole

Kyle (in big letters): ITS GRAND FUCKING FREAKING CANYON 

Stan (with an arrow to the word Kyle striked):  y are u censoring yurself on paper dude

Cartman: cuz hes afraid of his bitch mom stan cmon 

Kyle:  wait for me by lockers after SS cartman ill teach you what a glory hole is

Next Page.

Stan : how about utah? there's this cool spot in the mountains i read about

Cartman: what r we? fucking hermits?? why the FUCK would we go to mountains???

Kenny: waitt stan r y trying to go see ur mormon ex bf?

Cartman: omg ur still gay for him stan?

Stan (a sharp blue line cuts through Kenny and Cartman): shut up dude

Kyle: right... and thats just a ‘cool spot in the mountains’ you 'read about'

Cartman: u mean his secret mormon lover hideout? so u can finally make out with ur bf stan?

Kenny: don’t worry stan ill stand guard so u guys can enjoy ur time together :D 

Cartman: then u guys can marry and u can have his mormon babies and be gay together 4ever

Stan:  fine we're skipping utah. you guys are assholes btw

Stan flips through the notebook, his eyes tracing the familiar scribbles and crossed-out lines.

The pages are filled with endless rants and heated arguments over each other’s suggestions, each new idea adding fuel to the fire. Every correction, every bold disagreement only deepens the sense of commitment to this goal they once shared.

This. This is what he needs to kickstart his pen and get the words moving across the paper.

He doesn't care it's a plan born out of a common dream that four close friends once shared. It's now a part of Stan's plan.

It’s so close. Just a handful of notes. Maybe a thousand words in total. So close. He needs to get it done. He unlocks his phone and creates a group chat. 

Stan

hey

wanna go on a road trip before senior year?

Surprisingly, he doesn’t have to wait long; the boys respond almost immediately.

Kyle

???

Kenny

lmao wtf

stan?

Cartman

hahaha

y tf would we 

what even are u now stan?? a lone messiah?

thats kyle’s whole thing u know

and we all know how that ended 

Kyle

shut up fatass

Cartman

member when u were my bitch kyle

Kenny

yeah idk abt this trip thing tbh

r u serious?

school starts in 2 wks 

Stan

i have a car u know

i’ll pay for gas

Kenny

im down ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ᯓ★.𖥔 ݁ ˖° ༘ ೀ⋆｡°

Cartman

yeah just let stan pull down ur pants n fuck ur ass while ur at it kenny ur such a fag 

but sure y the hell not

havent seen stan this desperate 4 attention in yrs no fucking way im missing it

Kyle

what’s the catch

Stan

just to get out of south park for a while

Kyle  

for what

Stan

idk

theres nothing to do here anyways

unless u guys have other summer plans

we’ll just drive

Cartman:  

oh im sure ur just gonna drive stan

theres nothing going in ur head anyway

Kenny  

shut up fatass

Stan

so??

Kyle

i’ll go

but if this turns into some weird self-pity trip i’m out

Stan  

deal

He goes back to the page of the final draft they decided on, snaps a photo of the route and sends it to the group chat.

Stan

[photo]

this is the route we drew 

just found it 

remember?

thought we might actually follow it

Kenny

yo dude where did u pull this out of?? ur ass?

hell yeah i remember

☆ﾟ°˖* ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

ive been talking about going to the grand canyon forever man

this is gonna be sweet

Cartman

really stan? u trying to drag us on a childhood fantasy trip? 

were not 10 anymore moron

this route is a joke

i changed my mind 

Kyle  

we were so stupid

wtf are all these stops

it’d take forever lets cut some out

i mean if we r really doing this

Kenny

sounds like a good excuse for us to drink 

laugh our asses off while cartman whines the whole way

pees himself if we r lucky

Kyle  

lucky...

Cartman

fuck you kenny its not my fault ur 2 stupid to see this is a shit idea

y cant we hit the strip

also 

just remembered lol

im not getting in a car with a drunk fuck r u kidding me

Stan

dw about that i dont drink anymore

Kenny

woah dude since when

Cartman

yeahhhhh righhtttt 4 sure 

get ur blood tested asshole

if i see a bottle near u

its over

Stan

we can go over the route tmrrw?

ill pick you guys up from the bus stop

monday 5 am

Cartman

no fucking chance im wking up that early for this gay ass trip

Stan

6 am

Kyle  

ill ask my mom

Cartman

if i get stuck in the backseat next to kenny bc u fags want to jerk each other off at the front im shitting all over ur fucking car stan

Kenny

dont u worry eric

ill blow u in the back so u dont feel left out

ԅ(≖‿≖ԅ)

Cartman

ur a fucking pedophile kenny

Stan  

talk to u guys tmrw

Stan has a new plan. He just has to stick to it.

Chapter Text

Stan

ok we got the main stops

but

b4 we really get into it

we gotta stop in co springs

load up on water snacks n gas

all in favor?

Kyle

no beef jerky or ddd 

im talking to u fatboy

Cartman

u shit ur pants 1 fucking time n its all ppl talk about

y not denver

bkf at casa bonita?

Stan

we better get on the highway b4 its late

Kyle

u will survive a few hrs without choking food cartman

+ what kind of bkf r u planning anyway its casa fucking bonita

Cartman

ur a jew afraid of losing money kyle

go cry abt it in ur finances excel

whats wrong w enjoying life u bitch

Kenny

[link]

Kyle

no

Cartman

u dont know what ur talking abt kenny

Kenny

y the hell not (ง⪧‸⪦)ง

we r not 10 anymore

maybe its actually fun

Cartman

fucking herpes back then mustve fried ur brain kenny

or the hundreds of cocks u sucked since

u sure u dont have aids or smth

Kyle

dude we r not going ziplining

no way

Kenny

what do u think stan?

Stan

i dont mind

Kenny

w(°□°)w

well here we go

2 to 2

Cartman

nvm

lets go ziplining

Kyle

dude?? 

Kenny

? (╹ -╹)?

a change of heart?

so suddenly?

Cartman

would u side w judas if u had the chance kenny

im not about that life

Kyle

oh bc ur the embodiment of morals

u called ice on me once u fat fuck

Cartman

would u call ice on judas if u had the chance kenny

so u could get judas deported and save jesus 

Stan

if we come across a spot 

we can check it out

Kyle

im not stopping anywhere far just to zipline.

Kenny

maybe when we get back 2 colorado

as long as i got u considering it

(づ￣ ³￣)づ

Stan

so its like this

nm - az - back to co

going thru the main cities

Kyle

we should go see four corners 

after grand canyon

its where the 4 states touch

Kenny

omg

just like us u guys 

Cartman

whore

i just dont get y we cant go 2 vegas 

hit the strip

its right fucking there but we r going 2 the fucking canyon

Kyle

we r underage fatass 

its not like we can do anything there

Cartman

oh im sorry

stan could hit 3 bottles a day when he was 12 but i cant at 17???

Stan

well i mean 

i know i went thru 2 bottles min

ur fatass might need more to even get buzzed tho

Kenny

ohmygodagfg

(∩˃o˂∩)

Cartman

dont u have a pill bottle to overdose on u emo zoophile

Stan

ok

four corners 

what after that

Kyle

head back?

no need to go thru utah

Kenny

( ˶•ᴖ•) !! 

bbbbut

what about stans mormon bf 

he might be there 

u never know

Cartman

ur so homophobic kahl

u dont want the long lost lovers to reunite??

Kyle

im not even entertaining u idiots

Kenny

wait

lets hit up roswell too stan

aliens dude

Cartman

oohh aliens yea sure 

hes lying to u stan

kenny wouldnt give a fuck abt aliens unless its a freak orgy

ud love the tentacles wouldnt u kenny 

Stan

didnt u get ur ass probed by aliens

Cartman

see this is how i know ur still 

a fucking alky bitch stan

bc u have to be shitfaced rn to say this get a grip

preferably not a bottle

Stan

u told us u did

Kyle

nah u got it wrong 

he used to dream about getting buttfucked by aliens every night

remember?

Stan

isnt that a bit gay dude

Kenny

totally dude

Kyle

so gay

Cartman

screw u guys

Kenny

shutdown 

(＾◡＾)っ✂╰⋃╯

Stan

moving on

everything we agreed on so far

first stop co springs

NM - santa fe - taos - albuquerque - roswell

AZ - tucson - phoenix - gc 

Kyle

but like

what do we do 

specifically

Kenny

we ball

ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Cartman

stop nitpicking kyle

only pussies plan everything

n girls

Stan

yea this is the gen route

we’ll see whether we go off course

btw about the grand canyon

Cartman

yea yea

what kind of americans would we be

if we havent seen the grand canyon

god forbid

Kyle

apparently majority dont even know which state its in

so i say we r above average

Kenny

im above average

Cartman

yeah above avg among sick homeless crackhead hookers

Stan

we might have to take the scenic drive

instead of going in

Kenny

im fine w that

Kyle

me 2

Cartman

yeah its gonna be like 100°F anyway

i dont wanna die @ grand fucking canyon 

Stan

and finally

four corners

Cartman

gay

Stan

then we head back

Kenny

evry1 got the green lights from the folks??

Cartman

nvr needed it lolz

Kyle

got it alr

Stan

then

see u guys tmrw

Pocketing his phone, Stan makes his way downstairs, footsteps loud against the quiet of the house.

Since Dad left and Shelley went to Denver, the place is different—certainly emptier, a lot more space. Peaceful, thanks to the former, empty, because of the latter.

The once bare walls of their house are now filled with framed jigsaw puzzles, a collection that began soon after he was discharged from the facility.

Shelley was busy with last year of school and working by then, and so Stan and his mom started a new tradition whenever it was only two of them left in the house—jigsaw puzzles. One of the few activities Stan had found himself used to, and could do for hours, sitting on the wide table they set up in the living room. 

It’s where they sit together, sorting pieces, talking or, for the most part, not talking at all.

Sharon has learned to appreciate this quiet time, especially knowing Stan’s struggles with music. There are days, though, when she’ll slip on headphones to listen to an audiobook or a playlist. But most of the time, her preference is to light the nearby fireplace, letting only the crackle of burning fire fill the living room. It’s a kind of peace that he’s come to depend on.

Their current project—a 4000-piece Good Evening NYC"puzzle— is nearly complete, the image of the glowing skyline showing itself piece by piece.  A protective cloth is draped over it, waiting for the next session. His mom is planning to go to Target this week to get a new one, perhaps one with dolphins? How about that, Stan?

To say he enjoys it is a bit much. But he knows how much it means to his mom, and it helps pass time in his days.

He walks past Belly, sprawled on her back in true Belly fashion-- belly exposed to the ceiling as she sleeps without a care in the world.

They had chickens at the farm for a while, and to protect them, they had adopted Belly, a 4 year old giant schnauzer-golden retriever mix, from the shelter. Despite her imposing size, Belly had the gentles nature and not a single vicious bone in her body and managed to get knocked up just weeks after getting adopted. 

When Bear and Buffy came out looking like the fruit love of Belly and neighboring farm’s Great Dane— Lucky Luke— Sharon immediately scheduled Belly to be neutered. Not that Stan had any doubt another dog had to be the father and not Sparky. Sparky was gay, and even had a boyfriend— Prince from downtown who goes around the farmhouses in his free time.

As Stan passes through the living room, he doesn’t look at the memorial set up on top of the fireplace.

His mom's soft humming reaches him before he sees her. He turns the corner into the kitchen and there she is, standing by the counter, carefully setting down a steaming mug of coffee.

"Hey, Mom," says Stan.

Sharon turns to sit at the dinner table, her face lighting up with a mix of surprise and a bit of relief he has grown used to seeing whenever he said anything first.

"Stan. I didn’t know you were up." She says, all smiles. “How are you feeling today? Sleep good?”

Stan shrugs. He doesn’t want to get into the usual How-are-you-I'm-fine back and forth. Then, on impulse, blurts out, "I’m going on a trip.”

He watches her falter, missing the coffee cup she was about to drop a sugar cube into.

“I know, it’s kind of spontaneous. But it's just…” He risks a glance to his mom, “…a road trip.”

"What do you mean, a road trip?" She is alert now, her eyes— lined from years of love and worry, flickering with the same old worry she’s had ever since. She picks up the sugar cube with a hurried manner, tossing it into her cup. "With who? Where?” she asks, adding “When?” after a beat.

He watches her sit up straighter, feels his throat tighten. He doesn't want to worry his mom— he knows how she gets in her head when her face clouds up like that.

It’s so reminiscent of the earlier days in which she went through hell and back, that it makes him hesitate. 

After all, he was the one who put her through it.

“Y'know, the guys; Kenny, Cartman, Kyle…” he says quickly. "We’re going to New Mexico and Arizona, and come back. Uhh, leaving tomorrow, actually. Just to get away for a while before senior year starts..." He trails off.

Sharon blinks. There’s a slight shift in her expression, faint but still there. Hope, but apprehensive.

It’s foul of him to think this way, but he knows his mother won't say no. He hasn’t asked for anything since he was ten— so, statistically, he shouldn’t be sure, but he is. She would put up with anything for him.  

… as you get older you realize... the best thing to do is just... stick with what you know.

He will free her of that soon. He wants nothing more than to see his mother prosper in life, but she can’t do that with him weighing her down in this farmhouse.

“Stan…”

"I know, Mom, just—listen. I found one of my old notebooks, and me and the guys were messing around with some road trip ideas. Like, a route across a few states. Then I texted them about it. We’re still figuring it out, we haven’t really planned everything yet."

Sharon stays quiet. She wraps her hands around the cup as Stan takes the seat opposite her.

“You, Kenny, Eric… and Kyle?” 

Stan nods. While Kenny and Cartman might not calm his mom down, the mere mention of Kyle always brings her a sense of reassurance. Sharon’s always trusted Kyle, calling him her "second son" for the way he and Stan spent so much time at each other's houses growing up.

“It’s just, you boys have not been together for a very long time. I know Kenny and Kyle are not like that, but if someone is pressuring you-” Sharon starts and Stan can see the gears turning behind her eyes, speeding into overdrive, Stan has to cut her off now.

"No, no— nothing like that. I’m the one who brought it up, really. Look."

Stan turns on his phone and shows his mother the road trip bucket list they made. He catches the flicker in her eyes.

She misses her son, he is reminded once again-- and this Stan who got old, has taken him from her. 

Sharon rubs her forehead, her eyebrows furrowed, obviously chewing it over.

“You sure you got everything covered?” Eventually, his mother breaks the silence. "Do the others even have their licenses? Who’s driving? You’ve got to make sure you switch off and take breaks. And where exactly are these ‘stops’ you're talking about? You should plan your gas stops, too."

Stan is in the middle of packing when his phone buzzes with a series of notifications, one after the other.

He doesn’t need much—just a few spare long sleeves. He wouldn’t really care if the others noticed the faint white lines on his forearms, some regions raised with keloids.

Still, he doesn’t want it to turn into a conversation. It’s not worth the effort for anyone involved. Back when Shelley still lived at home, she’d swipe her concealers over his arms before school, making sure he could wear T-shirts without drawing attention. She had taught him how to do it, and left behind some of her products, but Stan never cared enough to do it himself after that. He can manage a little bit of heat, it’s no big deal, and trusts in his underactive thyroid to make him feel the chill even with the August heat.

He quickly goes to the bathroom, grabs a spare toothbrush and deodorant from the bathroom and tosses them into his backpack. His mom handed Stan her credit card, along with some cash, and already started to get the car ready for him.

At first he ignores the buzzing sound, thinking it’s the Roadtripperz, but then remembers after finalizing their route, that group have gone silent.

He reaches over to his phone and picks it up.

Shelley

sent u some money

dont spend it all on junk ok?

def no alc

not even rootbeer

idc its non alc

like im not kidding

Stan

got it

thx 

Shelley

ur welcome turd

Uncle Jimbo

Hey little man

Heard you’re going on an adventure

Come over before you leave

I have some camping gear for you boys

Stan

yea 

thanks uncle jim

His mom must have texted Shelley and Uncle Jimbo in record time; they're not even hiding the fact that they probably discussed what to say to Stan in their 'Stan-watch' group chat. Because otherwise, they would’ve just texted the family group chat, which includes all of them, plus Ned. 

If there was one thing that had improved since he turned ten, it was his relationship with Shelley.

After their dad packed up his weed farm and moved his business to another state following the divorce, Shelley redirected most of her animosity toward him. Watching Stan’s mental and physical decline, on top of watching their mom desperately try to hold the family together had hardened Shelley.

She still called him out for drinking, but her intentions had shifted. No longer the bullying older sister she’d always been, Shelley now worried constantly about his drinking habits at such a young age. The habit itself was what made Shelley get even more livid at the mere mention of Randy. In her eyes, his alcoholism had damaged Stan in ways that could never be undone.

Shelley was the one to drive him back and forth to rehab sessions in Denver, and those car rides turned into a tradition of sorts.

Later, when it became clear that Randy wasn’t going to even be a part of Stan's life, let alone teach him how to drive— and their mom couldn’t look at him without tearing up, seeing a baby version of Stan instead— it was Shelley who stepped up and taught him.

Shelley was out with her friends that day in June. Stan remembers her sitting curled up on the armchair near his bed, chin resting on a tightly clenched fist. He also remembers her rapid-fire talking, explaining her phone was on mute, and that's why she was late, and why, why, why Stan-- though it’s not like that he remembers much from that.

Stan remembers the lights, and that’s about the only thing he recalls from the first days in the hospital.

Through the haze, he opened his eyes to the blinding white, thinking for a moment that he had reached Heaven’s gates, only to quickly shut them as his eyes began to burn. Then, each time he opened them, there were the lights— the same fluorescent white.

An angel, he thought, appeared one day, floating through his blurred vision, a swirl of colors like oil paint dancing before the bright light. Is she here to take me to heaven? But the light burnt me, so God rejected me. She must be here to see me off to Hell.

The world, his hospital room, finally became clear when he was awake and lucid enough to see beyond the light blocking his vision, which had felt like a bright fog blocking the sight of God’s true sight, and realised the angel was his mom all along.

His mom, who was utterly crushed, clutched his hand as though it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Tears streaked down her face, her nose pressed against the bandages tightly wrapped around his arms, so obviously trying to keep her sobs in as to not disturb his rest. That’s when Stan finally regained full consciousness, the weight of his situation hit him so sudden that he couldn’t even summon the strength to lift his head.

With a fleeting glance at his mom, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

After that, a lot of things happened.

A woman visited him often, mom and Shelley leaving whenever she did.

Hello Stan.

I’m [static], I’m a psychiatrist here in our ER.

She talked a lot. Stan listened, and responded with a lot of "I don’t know"s and "I’m not sure"s. 

Not a lot of people get to this point without thinking its the only option left for them.

How long have you been feeling this way?

How do you feel about your life right now?

When did you first start drinking? What’s made it hard to stop?

Do you take your meds?

Take me through what happened, will you Stan? How was everything when you woke up yesterday?

“When can I leave?”

We will sort out all that later on. I’d like to come back and see you later again. 

After a difficult deliberation between the doctors and his mom— following his sufficient physical recovery, Stan found himself in their car, his mom driving him to the mental hospital in Denver.

Shaking off the thoughts of the past, Stan updates the Roadtrippers.

Stan

my uncle is giving us some camping gear

Kenny

sweet

Cartman

is there a gun

there better be

Stan

no?

Cartman

god fucking damnit stan

ur such a loser

He can’t help but be reminded of Josh.

Stan figures he would, in a really messed-up way, actually get along with Cartman. Josh’s energy rivaled Kenny’s— the only person with the endless stamina to deal with Cartman’s bullshit. Of course, there was just one obvious trait that Cartman would never get past: Josh was a redhead.

But Josh wouldn’t let that stop him; he’d stick with Cartman, chipping away at his defenses until he got inside his head. It’s what he’d done with Stan, after all, and even persevered through the black hole that is Stan.

He wonders how Josh is doing. He wonders what he’s doing.

Josh from Superior, Stan’s roommate-turned-sort-of-friend in the psychiatric hospital— care center, mental institution, whatever you call it — admitted because he ‘accidentally’ overdosed on a cocktail of drugs, saved only by his girlfriend randomly walking into his room. The same girlfriend who then broke up with him, claiming he’d traumatised her for life, leaving her unable to do drugs in peace. The same girlfriend, who— according to Josh’s outside sources during his stay—started dating their dealer soon after. Josh had talked about his business relationship ending with the guy-- What happened to bros before hoes? 

Stan wonders if this would’ve been Wendy once, a lifetime ago, if she was still around to be corrupted by him. He’s glad it’ll never be her.

It was getting chillier in Denver, Stan was already there for a whole month before Josh was admitted and moved into the room. Unlike Stan, Josh was allowed to wear long sleeved t-shirts and hoodies instead of only having access to t-shirts, or, on a good day, one those more-than-half sleeve jerseys.

After a week of non-stop conversations, initiated by Josh every single time, they had become somewhat-close, as close as two obviously ill teen boys stuck in a loony bin can be. It was one of those days that boys were ‘hanging out’ in their shared room, and Josh’s constant info-dumping prompted Stan to share a bit of himself in return— that he hadn’t left a note behind or anything.

“I had a letter just in case.” Josh had said,  “Which is what landed me here at the end. They thought I trying to off myself, hah!” 

“Which is not true, if only they actually read what I said.” He went on, sighing. “I have to write it again, make it clearer. Something like, I don’t know— I like living so I can do drugs. I don’t want to die. Maybe in all capital letters or something so it’ll get through my parents' head.” he paused. "I'll put that backstabbers name in, too, for the police. Snatching my girl like that..."

“What 'bout you? You obviously meant it.” Josh said, gesturing toward the obvious marks on Stan’s bare arms— Two long, vertical lines, ran across his pale skin. They’re still a bit bumpy and reddish, and they itch, though Stan has been advised not to scratch them too much. In a way, not wearing long sleeves has helped— the stitches have healed faster and the scabs have fallen off without fabric getting in the way.

“What were your last words?”

“I didn’t have any.”

“Really? No note, no nothin’?” Stan shook his head no. “That's cold, man.”

“I just have nothing to say, dude.” Stan sighed, “I didn’t plan to do anything that day, it just happened. I drank so much, I don’t even remember anything.”

“Jeez.”

“…”

“You gotta do something about it then.”

“Uh, why?”

“You gotta give ‘em something if you’re gonna take yourself away like that.” Josh smiled smugly to himself, seemingly proud of what he just said.

“What difference would it make?” Stan had asked, “It’s not like they’d miss me. I’m barely in their lives.”

“You were once. What about the guy they’ll remember you as?”

“Dude. What the fuck are you, a philosopher?”

Chuckling, Josh got up from his bed and started stretching his back.

“They should’ve just sent me to a detox program, man.”

In true Stan fashion, he had taken what Josh said into heart, as he always did, and really internalised the idea that he needs to leave a piece from his nine year old version behind so he can somehow atone for the way he is leaving things.

Honestly… 

Fuck Josh from Superior.

Stan

fuck u josh

Josh (Superior)

kys stan

try harder

His mom walks him to the car. Its nearly 5 am, the air is chilly, and the sky remains dark.

Belly and Buffy had woken up the moment Stan opened the door and followed him out without hesitation. Bear, on the other hand, was still lost in his heavy sleep. Even after Stan kissed his head and patted his ears, the large dog didn’t stir an inch.

The farm had transformed into a serene landscape ever since his dad moved Tegridy up north. The air was fresher and cleaner; Stan could take deep breaths without worrying about the undesired side effects.

By the time Randy left, they had already sold the old house next to the Broflovskis— or rather, his dad had uprooted the family and dragged them to the outskirts of town without a shred of regard for any of them. Going back, in any sense of the word, was no longer an option.

Stan used to wish his mother hadn’t followed Randy back then, and made that left turn instead. No use thinking that, now.

Sharon clutches the bottles in her hands so tightly her knuckles turn white, as if she expects Stan to lunge for them, to rip them away and down them. Her grip speaks of a fear she doesn’t voice.

Not that it’s beneath him to attempt, or like Stan hadn’t thought about it.

She steps closer, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a hug. When she loosens her hold, her hands, cool from the crisp evening air, come up to cup his cheeks— she has to stretch her arms now to hold him comfortably, he'd somehow managed to grow some inches despite everything he's done to his body-- but she doesn’t waver.

She won’t have to strain herself for any longer, he won’t grow any taller.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she says softly. He knows what she’s talking about. And they both know she wouldn’t.

His mom quit drinking the day she found him in his room, nowhere and everywhere between life and death. That moment cleaved her life in two, a before and an after. She quit a lot of things that day, not just the bottle. She quit her anger, her distractions, her belief that everything would turn out fine if she prayed enough.

Stan still feels the guilt of everything he robbed from his mother.

He hugs her again, folding into her warmth. His head rests on her shoulder, and though he has to bend down now to make it work, it’s comfortable. He feels the strength in her, as he always has, but he also knows there are more cracks there than ever— he hears it from the way her breath hitches as she holds him like he might disappear. He supposes he has given her more than enough reasons to fear for that.

He knows he has to say something for her. He decides on the truth.

Stan untangles himself from his mother’s embrace and looks her in the eye.

“I’ll come back, mom. I promise.”

It’s the truth, as much as he can give. That’s the plan. He plans on coming back from the road trip.

Sharon’s face crumples, her carefully guarded composure cracking wide open. Her lip, raw from worrying between her teeth, tightens as she forces stronger emotions down. 

“I want you to have so many stories to tell me when you come back.” She points toward his head with her chin, and Stan complies with a smile, bending so his mom can kiss his forehead.

“I think I will.”

Sharon untangles her fingers from the death grip she had on the pill bottles and stuffs them into Stan’s backpack, reminding him one last time. “Don’t forget the instructions. And don’t take your meds on an empty stomach, Stan.” She zips up the bag, pats it gently, and he turns his back. 

Stan climbs into his red Ram Dakota and starts the engine, the rumble breaks the morning quiet.

He glances out the window and gives a final wave to his mom. As he shifts into reverse and backs out of the driveway, Sharon steps closer to the gravel road. Her lips press together, trembling, holding back a cry, and she raises a hand to wave him back, her other arm wrapped tightly around herself.

He pulls out onto the road, giving one last look in the mirror. She’s still standing there, her hand raised, watching him go as the car picks up speed. Belly and Buffy circle around her, tails wagging. Belly barks after him, but his mom holds onto her, gently restraining her as she tries to follow Stan.

The farmhouse grows smaller and smaller. There’s guilty relief as he lets his shoulders sag once he’s out of sight, as if his mom could still see through miles and solid objects.

His first stop is Uncle Jimbo and Ned’s cabin to pick up the camping gear.

A sleepy Ned, wearing a fluffed up morning robe, greets him when he knocks on the door, while his borderline sleep-walking uncle starts hauling the gear into the back of the pickup truck. Uncle Jimbo barely makes it back into the cabin, offering Stan a half-hearted hug before collapsing face-first onto the couch. As Stan leaves, Ned is nowhere to be seen inside the cabin. Stan is somewhat glad to see them like this, comfortable and content, knowing his uncle’s problems with PTSD and insomnia.

The sun has yet to rise by the time Stan makes it to the bus stop. With it being so early in the summer morning, there’s no risk of parking there while he waits for the boys.

Stan taps his finger against the wheel once, twice before he pulls his phone from the pocket of his hoodie and starts typing. The ease with which the words flow feels almost unreal. He was right, this idea has unlocked something in his brain. Maybe it’s the sudden burst of stimulation—a stark contrast to the dullness he’s so used to. 

He’s just about finished with his first note when the front door bursts open, letting in a gust of crisp early morning air and a flash of tousled blond hair.

Kenny grins at him.

“Heya, handsome.”

Mom, 

I don’t know how to do this, but I owe it you. I know that now.

I was going to wait until graduation, but that’d give you more hope. I wanted you to at least see me graduate. But I think I still managed to do that with the road trip. I’m sorry mom. I really tried. Don’t worry about me anymore. I love you the most. I’m sorry. 

I don’t want you to blame yourself, Mom. I can't even stand the thought. I know you did your best. I can only hope you know this too. This isn’t your fault or anyone else’s. I’ve just been tired for a very long time now. I can’t see another way out.

Take care of Belly, Bear and Buffy for me. 

Stan

PS. Dad. You messed us up enough. Don’t fuck things up for my mom and sister anymore. And don’t bother coming back for my funeral. Just stay away from them.

PPS. Bury Sparky’s collar with me.

Chapter Text

Kenny, now sat on the front seat wearing a light grey hoodie and basketball shorts, strands of blonde hair peeking out. He grins at Stan, casual as ever. “Long time no see, dude,” he says, taking his worn backpack off. “Miss me?”

The back door opens next, and Cartman hauls himself in. He flops into the seat behind Kenny, making the entire car rock slightly with the force of his movements. “'Sup, Eeyore,” Cartman starts, though there’s no real bite in his voice. “So sorry if we’re late. Kenny had to go around and give last-minute BJs to his regulars since he’ll be out of state.” 

“You guys came together?”

“The customers certainly came—”

“I mean you two were together?”

“Uh, duh, Stan. I literally just said—”

Kenny bursts into laughter, putting on his seatbelt. He checks his phone as Cartman unleashes an early morning rage wave on Stan.

“Okay Stan, I see how it is. I don’t know when your mouth got so loose but you better shut it before people think you’re one of Kenny’s co-workers.”

“And here you are, an actual co-worker of Kenny.”

“Want me to shit on your backseat Stan? I will do it. Don’t fucking try me.”

Before Stan can respond, he notices a figure approaching from down the street. A familiar head of curly red hair, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and another bag in his hand, walking briskly toward the car. Kyle opens the door and slides into the backseat next to Cartman, and the tension in the car thickens. Kyle glances at Stan through the rearview mirror as if to gouge his mental status by the bags under his eyes, the blue of his eyes, and decides to offer a firm “Morning.” To which Stan and others respond with their own greetings.

When everyone has buckled into their seats, there’s only the hum of the engine.

“My mom made us sandwiches.” Kyle says eventually, his voice breaking the quiet, as he pats the bag resting on his lap then lifts it slightly to emphasize it, and Stan raises an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

“Oh, mine too. They’re in the cooler bag.” Stan says in surprise, as he takes a glance at the rearview mirror.

“Wait, mine too,” Cartman chimes in, lifting his oversized backpack. 

Kenny, who’s already hands deep in Cartman’s bag, rummages through it and chuckles as he pulls out a sandwich wrapped in aluminium foil, inspecting it with appreciation. “Liane’s turkey-apple sandwiches, dude, I prayed for this last night…Do we even need to go to the convenience store at this point?”

“I’m not eating anything that’s been near Cartman’s spare boxers. So, yeah.” Kyle replies, his voice dry and humorless.

“Well, I’m not eating anything made by a Jew, so yeah.” Cartman retorts just as fast, grabbing his bag back from Kenny's invading hands.

Stan doesn’t engage, his gaze flickering to the rearview mirror. He hasn’t seen been with them, all together like this, in years. It feels surreal...Like stepping into a memory he’s not sure he was even in anymore. He shifts in his seat, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Okay then. Everyone ready?” he ask.

“Aye aye, Captain!” Kenny exclaims, raising his fist into the air with a grin. Cartman whoops in response. Kyle just offers a quick, “Yup,” his tone neutral but somehow carries the anticipation of the road ahead. 

It quickly becomes quiet as they make their way to Colorado Springs — being in a car in early morning automatically makes the boys too sleepy to keep a conversation going. Cartman’s voice cuts through the silence, sluggish and drawn-out, “Well, there’s a Walmart right there. Captain, let’s anchor there.”

“Let’s not,” Kyle replies, scrolling through his phone with a yawn, “Apparently it’s dirty and dangerous, and cashiers accuse you of stealing out of nowhere. Yelp says so.”

“Why the fuck would they tag us? We’re four white teens, innocent small-town rednecks.”

Kyle raises an eyebrow, glancing over at him. “They might think you’re a foreign spy sent to start an earthquake, fatass.”

“Very funny, Kyle, let me tell you something—”

"There’s bound to be another gas station, dude. Besides, I don’t wanna get in trouble without at least five witnesses, or a middle aged woman to record it.” Kenny chimes in, the dry humor slipping into his voice as Stan drives past the Walmart Supercenter.

"Oh my god." Cartman’s eyes widen, transfixed by the glowing red sign of the gas station. "Is… is this real?”

"This is it. This place is it, Stan!" Kenny exclaims, his voice a mix of bewilderment and disbelief. He grips the back of Stan’s seat, leaning forward like a kid about to take his first rollercoaster ride."We were always meant to end up here.” 

Kyle sighs loudly, but it's laced with reluctant amusement. Even though he tries to act unimpressed, Stan can see the mirth in his eyes, as Stan drives closer — the gas station's big, bright white letters spelling out Kum & Go come into view.

Stan pulls up to the pump, the faint hum of the station’s neon lights buzzing above. The sky is just beginning to lighten, the first hints of daylight casting a soft orange and blue glow along the horizon. The night’s chill still lingers in the air, but it’s slowly giving way to the warmth of the coming mid-summer day.

“Alright, I’ll fill up. You guys go ahead and grab whatever you want,” Stan calls to the others. Kenny nods and unbuckles from his seat, turning to look at Cartman.

“Meet me in the restroom in 10, Eric. I’ll show you the real Kum & Go.”

“Sure, crack-whore. Put it on my tab.”

Kenny slides out of the car, giving Cartman a wink but saying nothing, already heading for the store. Kyle follows, rolling his eyes. Cartman’s the last to leave the car, muttering something about ‘sluts of today’

Stan steps out the last, the crisp morning air biting at his skin as he walks to the gas pump. He pulls his wallet out of his cargo shorts, deliberating between using his or his mom’s card for a moment before inserting his debit card to the ATM. He pulls the nozzle for 87 from the pump. The handle feels cold in his hand as he slides it into the fuel tank. It’s become a routine now, therefore comforting. 

As the fuel begins to flow, Stan inhales deeply, the familiar smell of gasoline mixing with the cold mountain air. He watches the numbers climb, rhythm of the gas filling the tank lulling him to a daydream. He shivers in his hoodie, watching the sun get higher and higher, by the smallest bits, its golden warmth yet to reach his skin. 

It was cold. 

Stan shifted the truck into park and turned off the engine, his hands slightly trembling as he stared at the pump outside his window. The truck was still new to him, still unfamiliar, and its maintenance needs seemed like one more thing he wasn’t quite ready to tackle. But Shelley was there.

“Time to get you sorted out with gas,” Shelley said, unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. She swung it open, stepping out into the brisk air, and Stan followed her, reluctantly, unsure if he was ready for this.

Shelley made her way to the pump, giving Stan a look as he hesitated. “You’ve watched me do this before, right? It’s not so complicated, Stan.”

Stan shrugged, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “I know, I’ve seen it. Doesn’t mean I know how to do it. I didn’t analyse your every move like a robot.”

Shelley rolled her eyes and chuckled before standing next to him. “First thing’s first—this is a pay-at-the-pump” she said gesturing at the ATM-like machine. “You pay here, with your card.” 

“Yeah, I got that much.”

“Then,” she continued, not letting Stan interrupt her momentum, “You gotta manually open the fuel door. Or gas door. Whatever.” She pointed at the part resembling a futuristic door handle. “That’s the door. Come on, press it.”

Stan nodded, and started following to his sister’s step-by-step instructions.

“That’s the gas cap, twist it. No, not clockwise. Yeah.”

“Now, get the card out. See this here? You have to insert the card — take it out fast — and activate the pump.”

“Always get regular — that’s 87. Push it.”

Stan glanced at her, his brow furrowed. “How do you know what kind of gas? ” as he did what she told him to do.

His older sister adjusted her beanie on her head, then tapped the side of the truck. “Well, the owner’s manual always says what kind of fuel to use, and for your truck, you’re looking at regular unleaded 87. That and —” she pointed at the unscrewed gas cap. “Your gas cap is black. No warnings, no nothing. It uses good old regular gasoline.”

“Why can’t I get… uh, 89?”

“You can. It’ll just cost you more for no benefits, you’re not gonna go faster or anything.”

Stan pouted, taking the nozzle awkwardly and pulling it from the holder. He tried to act casual, but it felt like he was holding onto something far more important than just a gas pump. He felt like a cartoonish Totem Pole Trench trope, a unified being made out of little people pretending to be a functional adult. Like he was a little puppy trying to climb the stairs up to where adulthood is. Putting this much importance on a gas pump, of all thing, was a bit ridicilous. Still, Stan thought of stuff like that.

“Once it clicks, you’re good to go,” Shelley said, watching him as the fuel meter slowly climbed. “You can keep squeezing the handle, or — push this here. And it’ll keep filling on its own.”

They stood in silence for a while until the pump clicked off. Stan hesitated before grabbing the nozzle and hanging it back up. When he looked back up, Shelley gave him a nod of approval.

“Well done. You’re going to be the best gas station attendant in all of Colorado.” She smiled, though there was a touch of warmth in her voice. She shoved her hands into her pink bomber jacket, and started walking towards the store. “Now, let’s head inside and get some celebratory soda. I’m feeling Dr Pepper.”

Stan followed her into the small convenience store, taking a look at his first ever gas receipt —unable to resist a soft smile forming on his face — before shoving it in his pocket, somehow not even thinking about how much older he just got and trailed after his big sister.

The pump clicks off, and the sound of it brings Stan back to the present. He pulls the nozzle out, slinging it back into place. He grabs the receipt from the pump, checks the total, and tucks the piece of paper into his pocket.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, eyeing the truck and making sure the tank is securely closed. He heads to the store, and makes his way inside to catch up with the others

Stan quickly spots Kyle in one of the aisles, scanning the nutrition table of a trail mix. He doesn’t go straight to him, lingers nearby for a while, feeling he'll only. make things awkward if he approaches Kyle all alone, because of everything they are and are not at the moment, and only joins after Cartman appears in the same aisle. Soon enough they find Kenny near the cereals, and four boys wander through Kum & Go together, their sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished tile floor, looking uniform like a pack of flamingos in their similar hoodie and short combinations. The shelves are stacked with colorful snacks and drinks, illuminated by the harsh glow of overhead fluorescent lights.

Stan grabs two packs of water bottles and tosses them into the shopping cart. “Alright, we’ve got the basics.”

Cartman, coming from the other side of the aisle, already had his hands full with bags of chips. “Basics? Sure. But you’re the guy who’s gonna be on his knees, begging me for a single Doritos chip an hour in.” He grins, shaking a bag of chips in Stan’s face before throwing it into the cart.

Kyle glares at Cartman as he grabs a few trail mix packs. “Yeah, and you’ll charge us, like, five bucks for that. We know your game.”

“Supply and demand, losers. Microeconomics. ” Cartman smirks, plunking his snacks into the cart.

“Grab Lunchables.”

“Yeah dude, get two of the ones with cheese and crackers.”

“These too.”

“Are you blind, Jew? There’s a giant fucking microwave symbol on this thing, and unless your ass is a radioactive oven, I don’t see how we can eat it.”

“I can’t survive a day without Sour Patch, Stan, get them in there.”

“No egg-mayo, we don’t need you stinking up the car, fatass.”

“It’s just some Mountain Dew, Kyle, not DDD, get off my dick.”

Meanwhile, Kenny lingers by the candy displays, rummaging through a shelf of mint rolls. He grabs two handfuls of Lifesavers and before joining others on the way to the checkout counter.

“Dude.”

Kenny shrugs innocently, the bag crinkling in his grip. “What? They’re just mints.”

Stan places his crackers and packs of Arrowhead on the counter after Kyle, raising an eyebrow at the mint rolls clutched in Kenny’s hands. “Didn’t you almost OD on those things once?”

Kyle looks up from counting their collective haul, exasperated. “No, those weren’t mints. Those were my dad’s antacid tablets. He ate like fifty.”

Kenny snickers, the mints into their cart, “They weren’t even bad, dude, they tasted exactly like mints.”

Cartman laughs, loud and obnoxious, as he slaps a pack of beef jerky onto the counter. “Dude, you almost shut down your entire digestive system! I’m shocked you didn’t explode from both ends.”

Even Kyle can’t hide a smirk at that, and Kenny laughs.

“It felt like that man, I think I clogged the Broflovski’s toilet.”

“Not just the toilet, dude, my dad had to call a plumber that night. My mom didn't tell you because she felt bad.”

Stan shakes his head, grabbing a pack of salty crackers and rice crispies, "You're lucky you didn't shit a bowel out, dude."

“Life’s short. Might as well have A Hole Lot of Fun” he says, bringing one of the rolls next to his smiling face like he’s shooting a mints commercial.

The cashier, a fellow sleepy teenager, stares at them blankly as she scans their items, her eyes darting to Kenny’s pile of Lifesavers and back. The register beeps steadily as their snack haul rings up, a mix of water bottles, chips, gummies, a questionable amount of soda, trail mix and crackers. She complies wordlessly as Kenny asks for a spare plastic bag, and just hands it over. They split the bill, almost ten bucks each, and exit the store.

After they finished loading the snacks into the back of his car, the air had warmed a little, the morning sun managing to chase away the lingering chill of the night.

Cartman, who had been leaning against the side of the car, suddenly perked up, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. He turned toward the gas station, the towering Kum & Go sign glowing bright behind him. Kenny, already halfway back to the car, looked over at Cartman with an eyebrow raised.

"Hey, Kenny," he said, a little too sweetly. "Wanna take a photo?” 

“Got something in mind?”

Cartman just smirks and grabs the platic bag Kenny asked for, and pulled him to a spot where the gas station sign can be seen clearly.

"Kenny, pose," He orders, taking his position as the cameraman, a smirk plastered on his face as he points to the glowing sign in the background. “You gotta represent, man. The face of Kum & Go, right here.”

Kenny smirks wide, pointing at Cartman’s phone like he’s on reality TV, “With me, you’re guaranteed to Kum & Go.”

“Put the bag on your head, Kenny.”

“Hell yeah, dude, modern art.”

“Say ‘Support my local business.”

“Support my local business!”

Stan and Kyle exchange weary glances as the two continue to pass innuendos between them. It lasts maybe a second, but it’s so familiar that it hits Stan like a water jet. A flash of something that he can’t quite pinpoint. They’ve barely spoken since they stopped being friends, and yet, right here, right now, they fall back into it so easily it makes Stan’s stomach churn.

Kyle’s expression shifts, just for a moment, like it hits him too. His lips tighten, and for a split second, Stan swears he sees a flash of uncertainty. Then, just as quickly as it came, it’s gone.

“I’ll make sure Cartman doesn’t go overboard,” Kyle mutters, his voice low, like he’s saying it more to himself than to Stan.

Stan nods, even though Kyle’s already walking off to join Cartman and Kenny by the truck. The words are nothing new, just has never been said before to get away from Stan.

He stays still for a second, putting his weight against his car. There's a mix of frustration and resignation building in him, like they’re standing at a threshold neither of them is willing to cross. He can feel it in the air, in the way their eyes meet and avoid each other.

Stan shoves the thought away, knowing it won't help to think too much about it. He’s not here to fix things between them, and neither is Kyle. Instead, he gets back in the car and reaches for the bag of crackers he picked up earlier, tearing the package open. He stuffs the package into the side compartment to snack on later, and shoves a couple of crackers into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Stan takes his antidepressants quickly, swallowing the pills with a gulp of water, making sure the others can’t see. 

He doesn't want Kyle to think he’s doing it on purpose, or give him that look again—the one that says "you’re just doing this for attention. Stan knows how it looked, back then, how it looked when he spiralled and let it all show. He doesn’t want a repeat of that. 

It’s like you just want people to see how messed up you are

The others return to the car, and Stan’s already sitting behind the wheel, his hands loosely gripping the steering wheel. He doesn’t look up, still caught in his own head. The engine hums softly, and the sound of the other boys piling in breaks the quiet.

Kenny hops in first, his laughter still echoing from the whole ordeal. He slides into the front seat with a grin. Cartman follows right behind, "Alright, I’m ready for the next leg of this trip,” he says, flopping down onto the hoodie he threw on his seat. “Got picture of the year. Truly, you’re made for the camera, Kenny.”

"Damn right."

“Let’s post this on Kum & Go’s wikipedia page. Do you wanna be the mascot or the CEO?”

"I wanna be the muse."

Kyle’s the last to get in. He slouches into the back seat next to Cartman, immediately flicking his phone on. He doesn’t say anything as he settles in, but the look he gives to Stan in the rearview mirror is brief, uptight.

Stan starts the engine.

Around the twentieth minute mark of Kenny and Cartman’s lowkey car-aoke session, Kenny suddenly stops mid-song. He rolls his windows down, leaning out slightly as he points outside, his finger cutting through the air with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Dude, dude, look, that’s Pikes Peak International Raceway! There was just a race here, like two months ago —”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Tracy Hines won the Midget Race blah-blah-blah.”

Kenny whips his head around to stare at Cartman, doing it so fast that Stan’s surprised he didn’t snap his neck. His hazel eyes widen in disbelief, eyebrows shooting up as he tries to process what Cartman just said.

“Dude, hold on. I never told you this. What the hell, Eric? You’re a USAC guy now? Since when? How come you never told me?”

“‘Cause I’m not? I’m still not a fag Kenny, despite your best efforts. Heard the stupid TV announce a National Midget Race so I went down to watch it ‘cause I thought it would be midgets in their little midget cars racing against other midgets. But no, it’s as boring as fuck just like any other car race.”

“You’re a case for failed humanity, fat-ass.” Kyle quips, shaking his head. Kenny looks disappointed, his face falling as he slumps back into his seat, crossing his arms and pouting like a kid who’s just been let down.

“It’s the the fastest 1-mile paved oval anywhere. They held NASCAR there before ownership changed, man…They don’t do it anymore. Busch series. Even the fucking craftsman trucks. Silver Crown. IndyCar. I never got to see any of it.”

“Don’t feel too bad about it Kenny, not like you could’ve afford it.”

Kenny lets his head slide and drop against the window, longingly staring at the raceway they’re speeding away from. “What I wouldn’t do for just one Richard Petty experience…”

“Well, that narrows it down to… pretty much anything.”

“No, dude, Cartman, no matter how batshit crazy it is, I’d do it.”

“Whatever you’d do, you’ve probably done it at least twice, dumbass.”

Stan glances at Kenny, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but you and Shelley actually might get a long.”

The car falls silent for a beat as the others process this.

“Wait, what?” Kyle finally asks, “Shelley? Your Shelley?

“Oh my god, Stan. You’re pimping your sister out? To Kenny? Of all people!” Cartman exclaims.

Stan ignores him, his eyes on the road. “She’s into NASCAR and all that.” he says, his tone casual.

“Since when do you guys talk about anything, let alone get along?”

Stan shrugs, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. “We’ve been good for a while now.”

“Seriously?” Cartman chimes in, turning in his seat to stare at Stan. “She stop beating the crap out of you or something?”

“Yeah,” Kenny asks, curiosity piqued. “When did that happen?”

It’s the most they’ve interacted since starting the trip. Stan welcomes it, but he still hesitates, keeping his gaze locked on the road ahead. He doesn’t want to get into the messy details of his family or the past few years, how his sister seemed to age ten years overnight, so he just shrugs, “Dunno, just happened,” he says simply. “She even taught me to drive.”

Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Shelley did? Not your dad?” 

It’s an offhand comment, and Stan doesn’t exactly blame him for it. But Kyle knew about Randy’s behavior back then, after all. At some point, when Mr. Broflovski had stopped suggesting father-son day activities, it seemed like the lawyer had given an unspoken sentence. Randy wasn’t the kind of person anyone would want near their kid—especially not in a car.

It’s strange to see Kyle play ignorant. Or maybe, he just never paid as much attention as Stan thought he did. He didn’t know which one would hurt more.

“You’re gripping it like it’s gonna fly out of your hands,” Shelley said “You know the car isn’t alive, right? If you do, then maybe let it breathe.”

Stan shot her a look, his expression a mix of irritation and frayed nerves. “I just don’t want to crash, or get off road, okay?”

Stan sat in the driver’s seat of Shelley’s battered 2005 Outback, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his hands felt waterlogged. His arms and shoulders were stiff, eyes darting between the road and mirrors all around. Beside him, Shelley sat comfortably, too comfortably, in the passenger seat, sneakers propped on the dashboard.

“You’re not gonna screw up,” Shelley replied. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on her phone as she typed messages rapidly, her lips occasionally popping a piece of gum with a soft snap. The faint, sugary sweet scent of bubblegum lingered in the car as she chewed with a lazy confidence, eyes glued to the phone screen.

Pop.

“And if you do, it’s fine. We’re literally in the middle of nowhere. Worst-case scenario, you dent the car, give me your money, and become my slave for a week.”

“Not helping,” Stan grit through his teeth, though the tension in his shoulders eased a little. He pressed down lightly on the gas pedal, and the car rolled forward, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires filling the otherwise quiet air.

“Finally…See?” Shelley said, her voice gentle but with just enough edge to keep him on his toes. “Now give it a little more gas. We‘re not on a parade float.”

Stan exhaled and pressed down a bit harder, the car responding with a smooth hum as it picked up speed. His hands still felt clammy against the steering wheel, so forced himself to drop his shoulders and flex his fingers.

For a while, they drove in silence, the empty road stretching out before them. The soft light of the setting sun spilled across the landscape, bathing them in orange.

“Hands at 10 and 2.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You’re getting the hang of it,” Shelley said eventually, taking her eyes off the phone and starting at her brother, tone more upbeat now. “I mean, you’re not exactly Dale Earnhardt or anything, but hey, baby steps.”

Stan squinted his eyes, “Who?”.

“Dale Earnhardt.” No reaction. Shelley shot him a pointed look, narrowing her eyes at him. “NASCAR legend. We literally just watched the Cup Series, Stan. Together.”

Stan glanced at her, his frown deepening. “You trapped me in your room and made me watch it. It’s not the same thing.”

Shelley’s frown deepened as she straightened up, “It is so.”

Stan bit his lip, trying to keep his attention on the road. The world felt a little distant—everything still felt a bit off, and he couldn't shake that strange fog in his head. He didn’t quite remember the races she was talking about, not the way she probably did. The past months blurred together, a combination of still moments and cloudy thoughts that left everything feeling hazy. The pills he'd been prescribed had made everything feel off.

But he couldn’t tell her any of that. Not to his sister who has been trying so hard. Instead, he just let out a small groan. “Yeah, okay. Sure, whatever you say.”

Shelley sighed dramatically, throwing her head back into the car seat. “It’s fine. We can always watch them again.” She smiled at him.

Shelley had started dating Brody last school year. The guy was a huge fan of stock car racing, and somehow, in the short time they’d been together, he’d managed to infect Shelley with his obsession. Shelley then spread the ‘infection’ like a zombie apocalypse. Unfortunately for Jess and Leah, as Shelley’s best friends, fell into the black hole too, all caught up in gushing over the ‘handsome drivers’ and the ‘crazy races.’

“Do I have to?”

“Yup. No choice.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as Stan drove on. After their little back-and-forth, he realized he had unconsciously relaxed his upper body and legs. The car moved much smoother on the asphalt now, with fewer jerks or stutters. Judging by her face, Shelley must've noticed it too.

"Okay, good. You’ve got the straight-line thing down. Congrats, you’ve evolved from parade float to a train," she said, smirking. “Let’s do some turns, now.”

Stan adjusted his grip on the wheel, and they roll down the road slowly. Shelley’s hands hovered near the gear stick, ready to step in if needed.

"Now, when you turn," she started explaining, leaning forward a little, "you’re gonna use both hands on the wheel. You don’t wanna just jerk the car around like you’re yanking on a video game controller. I’ve seen you drive before, in that stupid game. That won’t cut in real life.”

“I wasn’t feeling well that day. Kyle—”

“Left. Turn left now.”

Stan’s hands twitched before he slowly turned the wheel without thinking, his body obeying his sister’s coaching. The car shifted, sliding smoothly into the next lane without any drama.

"Good," Shelley nodded, “Don’t think. Now right.”

Stan mirrored her instruction, a little more confidently this time, the car responding smoothly to his movements.

"See?" Shelley said with a small laugh. " Like riding a bike.”

Stan exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing.

Shelley chuckled. “Don’t force yourself, easy does it."

Stan nodded, trying to focus. When began to steer, turning the wheel gently to the right, the car followed, and Shelley continued to coach him.

It became clear much later that day that while Stan got the gist of driving fairly quick, his parking needed a lot of practice. Shelley had placed two bricks on their driveway to guide him, but each time he attempted to park perpendicularly, he drove over them, or entirely missed one because he misjudged the distance. Hours passed, the Sun went down and the Moon came up, as they went through the motions again and again, Reverse, straighten the wheel, align, park. Reverse again, try to correct, park. And then, in a moment of exhausted hilarity, the two of them burst into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that started deep in the chest, doubled them over, and made it hurt to breathe. Stan’s face flushed, his shoulders shaking as he held onto the steering wheel with his forehead resting on it, eyes tearing up. Shelley wasn’t any better, her laughter ringing out louder, high-pitched and cackling, echoing in the evening stillness of the neighborhood.

Stan’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before he forces a casual shrug. “Shelley’s a better teacher anyway.”

“How’s she doing? She was in community college, right? Kevin told me.”

“Yeah. She got her AGS, transferred to the nursing school in Aurora. Living with a friend up there. Doing well.” 

Kenny laughs, “Damn, if even Shelley Marsh can chill out, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.”

“No way, dude. Shelley Marsh. The She-Ogre, a nurse. That’s crazy.”

“She’s cool.” Stan says softly.

His sister is the best, and even though Stan can’t quite shake the ache in his chest from her leaving, he knows she’s out there doing something meaningful, something she wants to do. It lifts a weight off his chest, knowing she will be fine. She will be fine. Even after Stan, she’ll be fine.

He'll be fine. He'll be fine. Even after Shelley, he'll be fine.

Stan kept repeating in his mind, almost like a mantra. If he says is just enough, then it would shift reality

The car was packed to the brim with all kinds of Shelley’s things—clothes, books, some plushies for the bed, more clothes, shoes, and a box of things she didn’t want to leave behind.  The day had felt like any other, but Stan knew it wasn’t. 

Shelley was leaving for college. 

It was the first time in years that Shelley wouldn’t be around, it had settled heavily deep in his chest, unwilling to move. It wasn’t like she was moving to another country, just Denver, literally only an hour and a half away. 

And yet it has never felt more far. 

Stan, even though he helped to carry most of the boxes in the beginning, had chosen to sit in the car while his mom unloaded the last few lighter boxes. He wasn’t sure if it was to avoid seeing the reality of it or because he felt his energy drain out of his body. 

Shelley wasn’t just his older sister anymore. She had become so dependable, so reliable, so unlike Randy that it felt weird to say she filled the father figure in his life. She had become his best friend, his only friend. And now she was leaving. No more daily driving lessons after school, no more dragging him out of his room to bake stuff in the kitchen, whether they were experimental recipes or actual ones, no more lazing in front of the TV watching stock car racing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to face the fact that things were changing—without him ever doing so, and it surprised him that it’d hurt just as much. He thought he’d be numb to this too.

His mom’s voice had been steady as she moved around all day, but there had been a slight tremble when she handed Shelley the final box. “All set?”

Shelley nodded, then looked at Stan,“You okay, turd?” she asked, like she knew. And she most likely did.

Stan just gave her a half-hearted nod, biting his lip. It was easier to pretend he was fine, easier for him, and mom, though Shelley wouldn’t just buy it “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Shelley set down the box, walked over to Stan, and wrapped her arms around him. Stan’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he just stood there. He felt her warmth, the softness of her jacket against his skin, and his chest ached. He wrapped his arms around her, but only half-heartedly, unsure of how to hold on without letting all his emotions spill out.

"I’ll drive by every weekend, you know," she promised. "It’s just Denver. Not far at all. We drove here once every week just last year. Only an hour and a half." Her voice was firm, though Stan could hear the slight tremor in it. She wasn’t quite ready to let go either. She would cry if he did.

Stan hadn’t answered right away, just held her tightly. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. He just squeezed his sister a little tighter, his face hidden in her shoulder.

She pulled away, her hand resting on his shoulder for a moment, as she had looked at their mom. “Okay then, I’ll let Jess know I’ve moved my stuff in, then we can all go out to eat.” 

Stan watched as Shelley picked the box back up, and walked toward the door of the apartment, heard Jess call out to Shelley. The door had clicked shut behind he

It was just a door, he told himself. Just a door closing.

Sharon turned toward him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders, “Lets wait for them in the car,” she had said softly. “I was thinking of taking Shell and Jess to a good restaurant, some fine-dine.”

Stan nodded. After today, Shelley would be gone, and it would be just the two of them left in their house.

Kenny leans back, “I guess it comes with age. Me and Kevin get along better now, too. But Karen doesn’t like any of us. Thinks Kevin’s too uptight and I’m ‘too much of a free spirit’. Can’t win with her.”

Kyle nods in agreement, “Yeah, Ike’s a little menace now, too. Total brat. We used to be cool when he was younger, but now we fight all the time.”

Cartman, of course, goes in with, “He can smell the jew in you, Kyle. He knows what you really are.”

“Shut the fuck up, he’s jewish too.” Kyle says flatly, shooting him a glare.

Stan’s of his mouth quirk slightly as the banter unfolds.

“Well, I’m glad I’m an only child,” Cartman declares smugly. “No siblings to deal with, share my spotlight.”

“Well,” Kenny says, “You always have Scott.”

The car erupts into laughter as Cartman erupts into a string of curses and objections and loops his arm around Kenny's neck, trapping him in a chokehold, even Stan can’t help but grin. Scott’s still the sorest topic Cartman has, then. The racetrack fades into the distance, replaced by open fields.

They're passing by Spanish Peaks when Kenny’s playful tone interrupts whatever was playing on the radio, ”So… Stan,” obviously trying to build a bridge between the front (Stan) and the backseats (Kyle and Cartman), “What games are you playing these days?”

Well…

Tetris, mostly.

But how can Stan tell them that?

It was Shelley’s fault, really.

The common room was painted in neutral tones—beige walls and baby blue furniture that made it look a bit like an undecorated kindergarten. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, a constant murmur of conversations around the room. Stan sat in one of the plush couches near the corner, staring at the scratched paint of the coffee table in front of him. 

He had a new roommate, since Josh was released after a month of stay. A guy named Jerry. Short and chubby, low spirits, and sleeps or dozes off all the time. Too much like Stan and a complete opposite of Josh. He seemed to be stuck with people whose names start with ‘J’ constantly these days, even his assigned therapist’s name was John.

Sharon sat next to him, her voice soft and measured as she asked him about his meals, his sleep, his days. She kept a careful smile on her face, though Stan could tell it was forced. He gave her short, half-hearted answers, each reply took effort like they had to be dragged out from deep in his lungs. He wasn’t sure if it was the medication dulling his thoughts or just how his head worked now, his new normal, but he barely felt present.

“Dr Novak thinks it’d be better if you stayed in a treatment center, for a little longer. The place, I looked at it, is just for youth and so much better. It’s cosy, home-like, and—”

He shifted his gaze toward the window, watching the raindrops hit and streak down the glass. In the background, his mom’s voice softened, likely noticing his unwillingness to listen annd uncaring. Sharon stood up, smoothing down her blouse. “I’m going to get us some tea and coffee, okay? I’ll be right back.” She ran her fingers through Stan’s hair, his dark strands had gotten longer since the last haircut day, before dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

Stan gave her a slight nod, watching as she walked toward the refreshments table on the other side of the room.

As soon as Sharon was out of earshot, Shelley moved closer, shifting from her chair to take mom’s spot beside Stan on the couch. She leaned back, her arm casually draping around his shoulders. At first, Stan didn’t react, his gaze fixed on the table, they’ve never been too physical unless it was for violence, and even when they got closer after Randy, they still didn’t hug much.

Shelley didn’t say anything first, just sat there, looking around the room. Then she leaned in slightly, voice low and softer than Stan expected.

“Stan,” she said, her tone carried a gentleness he had become increasingly familiar with over the past year—more than he liked to admit, it made him feel a bit useless at times." If something’s wrong, tell me. I mean it. You don’t have to tell Mom, just tell me.”

Stan blinked slowly, her words taking longer than they should to sink in. He shifted his gaze to her, his expression blank but his chest tightening at the weight of her concern. She looked different now—less like the sister who used to bully and beat him to the ends of the Earth, and more like someone who

“Why?” he mumbled, his voice scratchy and distant.

Shelley frowned, her grip on his shoulder tightening slightly. “Because I care, stupid. And... I don’t know. I don’t want you thinking you’ve gotta keep everything inside. I’m not gonna judge you for it.”

Stan turned his head back toward the table, his lips pressing into a thin line. The scars on his wrists seemed to glow under the light, drawing Shelley's eyes to them.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Shelley sighed, leaning forward slightly. “You’re not, though. And that’s okay. I’m not asking you to be fine. I just—” She paused for a second to bite the inside of her cheek. “I need you to promise me you’ll talk to me if you need to. Even if it’s some fucked-up shit.”

Stan’s throat felt tight, and he swallowed hard, averting his gaze from his sister. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words felt too far away, buried under layers of rotten brain matter. Like a zombie.

After a long pause, Shelley leaned back again, “Look, you don’t have to talk now. But whenever you’re ready, come to me. Just you and me. Mom doesn’t have to know everything.”

Stan finally glanced at her, but something in him loosened. It wasn’t anything much, and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it was enough to make him give a slight nod.

“Okay,” he murmured.

Shelley gave his shoulder a light squeeze,“Good. That’s all I’m asking.” Then, her eyes lit up like she just remembered something.

“Oh! I almost forgot. I asked Dr Novak beforehand so no worries there, completely allowed — I brought you something.” She reached for her backpack and rummaged through it, full of stuff she wouldn't ever need, as always, and pulled something blue out.

“Aha! Here you go.”

Stan let out a disbelieving noise as he held his old Nintendo DS, “What the hell? Where'd you find this? This is like, old old.”

“I went through your stuff.” She raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “Get mad if you dare.”

Stan wasn’t mad. But he was bored for a long time, nothing in the facility made the time go faster, not the stupid therapy circles, not the TV shows, and even if he had doubts a game console would bring him the joy he could never find , he welcomed it regardless.

“I’ll take revenge when I return. But thanks, I guess.”

He turned the console over in his hands, the Pikachu stickers he covered it with were still there, persevered through the passage of time only sustaining minor injuries —faded and peeling at the edges.

“I bought some stuff too. Did you know they still make games for this thing? I got, um, Legends of Zara—“

“The Legend of Zelda.”

“Whatever. And some basics, so there’s Tetris, then a new Pokemon game—”

The conversation flowed naturally, sounds of the common room faded into the background. When Sharon returned with two cups of tea and a coffee for Shelley, her eyes softened at the sight of them talking and smiling as she set the tray on the table.

Shelley leaned forward, watching Stan go through a Tetris level, and for the first time in a long while, Stan felt a little less worse, even as the day ended with the decision that moved him to the residential treatment center.

"I don't play that much, just some good old COD, sometimes."

“Realy? I haven’t seen you online anywhere. Staniscool is never on WoW, ever.”

“You guys still play that? I thought my account would’ve gotten deleted by now.”

“Blizzard doesn’t delete accounts, not for inactivity. Dude, you had the Sword of a Thousand Truths.” Kenny pouts, “When we’re back, log in and give it to me.”

Kyle interjects immediately, “Uh, no? What the fuck is your Shaman gonna do with a sword? Don’t give it to him, give it to me.”

Stan takes a peek at Kenny’s smug expression, a face that clearly knew Kyle would take the bait, “Well, I want it.”

“Dude. I can actually equip it.”

“I’ll give it to my Rogue.”

“Your Rogue? Your Level 50 Rogue. That you got bored of? What the fuck are you talking about, Kenny?”

“What can you offer to Stan that I can’t? He won’t just give it away for free. It’s the Sword of a Thousand Truths. Right Stan?”

Stan knows it’s his turn in the banter.

However, it’s not easy. Not with Kyle. Not anymore.

With Kenny, it’s easy. Like a current of air, or rushing water. Kenny effortlessly keeps the conversation moving, and Stan just has to stay afloat and go with the flow. With Cartman, it’s even easier—poke him, watch him blow up, and then ride on that wave.

But with Kyle, it’s different. It’s complicated. Back when they were inseparable, they used to agree on everything, so the need for banter between the two was almost nonexistent unless one did some over-the-top stupid shit. And when they did engage, they were always on the same side, their verbal jabs aimed at others.

Stan’s afraid of saying the wrong thing and killing the mood, not when Kyle already hates him for it. 

“I’m listening. Any offers?”

“With me, it’s always a good time.” Kenny tilts his head and waggles his eyebrows at Stan. 

“Oh my god.” Kyle pinches the bridge of his nose in disappointment, “You bastard. You always have to go there.”

“It’s his whore nature, Kyle, it’s like asking a pussy to skip its monthly heat.”

“What about… five bucks?” Kyle offers, making Kenny gasp in retaliation.

“You know I can’t offer money, and you do this? Kyle. You’re cruel.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a jew, I’ve been saying.”

“Do I hear ten?” Stan interrupts, making Kenny slap his arm.

“I’ll do your homework. Calculus, algebra, chemistry, up to you. One whole month.”

“I could’ve offered him that.”

“Well, I’m smarter than you, Kyle.”

“Fuck you Kenny.”

“Hmm, I don’t really care.”

“Fine. I’ll blow you.”

“Kenny…”

“I had to do it, look at him, he’s hard to please.”

“You don’t even need the fucking sword!”

“You’re right. A handjob then.”

“Ten bucks still on the table?”

“Okay, fine, I can get you coupons. Discount. Willy’s Ice Cream, Petsteps, you name it dude.”

“Really, you think—”

“Going once, going twice…”

"Don't tell me you're actually considering giving away the sword," Kyle says.

Of course, Stan thinks, I don’t have any use for it, and soon, I’ll never have a need for it again. I’d rather give it to you.

Instead, he says, “Well, now you don’t seem too eager. I guess Kenny wants the Sword of a Thousand Truths more.”

Kyle has always been smart, but a very easy fish to bite the bait. Like the trouts they used to catch when Uncle Jimbo dragged him to Stark’s Pond at the crack of dawn. His cheeks instantly redden as he unbuckles from his seat to lean towards the front, “Wait, no. Dude. I really do. I just thought your human warrior, after you level cap, will still use it. Am I wrong?” 

Stan forces a chuckle out of his mouth as Kenny and Cartman lose it. “Make him beg more, Stan!” Cartman has his phone out, no doubt recording the fleeting moment for future serotonin boosts. “This is gold. I feel like a leprechaun.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Ugh…” Kyle lets go of the headrest and slumps back into this seat. “When did you become so difficult to negotiate with?” he mutters, the last part probably mostly to himself rather than Stan. His heart prickles, but Stan’s unable to pinpoint the emotion. Annoyance? No. Hurt? No. 

He doesn’t know himself much anymore, he stopped trying as he got older.

“Anyhow… Get back to Azeroth, dude, we have pandas now.”

“Pandas?” Stan furrows his eyebrows, “Like… Po?” 

“Yeah,” Cartman quips from the back, still chuckling at the video he’s replaying on his phone, “Even Butters came back. He’s a freaking panda priest, dude. It’s funny as fuck.”

“It was funny as fuck when you were screaming into our ears last week, begging him to heal you.”

“Dumb motherfucker was out of mana — you yelled at him too, what the fuck are you giving me the attitude for right now?”

Send the sword to Kyle’s account, Stan notes for the future. Or Kenny, just for the kicks. When he returns, he’ll sort all that out. He has to re-download WoW first, his plan will have to wait a few hours.

“You really need to get back into WoW, dude. We’ll help you catch up then you can be a reliable DPS, you know, easy to work with and cooperative. God knows we need one.” Kenny mutters the last part, not-so-subtly glancing at Cartman. 

“I’m carrying our raids, Kenny, while you’re busy looking at your Draenei’s tits.”

“Ass and thighs. I’m never taking Mageweave Regalia off.” Kenny grins, eyes drifting into space like he's seeing the image of his half naked character, before shaking his head, “There’s this thing called transmog now, so you can wear whatever the fuck you want to raids and shit. Anyways. Dude. If you’re not coming back to WoW, start another game, for me if not for anything else. I’m suffering, man.”

“We’re suffering,” Kyle and Cartman say in unison. In a moment as rare as a solar eclipse, neither of them looks remotely bothered by it.

“We started League of Legends, like a year ago. It’s a long story but you need five people,  and I’m playing support in my lane, with an ADC — that's Attack-Carry-Damage — and we don't have that role locked down by anyone, so we’re recruiting. Butters, he’s mid usually, and Scott tried but—”

“They suck major ass.” Kyle lets out a confirming hmph in response to Cartman.

“—and Craig gets pissed when we ask Tweek to ADC so we have to play with randos. It’s especially bad in ranked because—”

Stan makes an effort to tune him out, turning up the volume on the radio, even if he doesn't her the music, he'd rather the buzzing and crackling to Kenny's endless rant about game mechanics.

“Honestly, Stan, you’d be the perfect ADC. You always carried us before in every game. I could support you, no problem. You just need to trust me on positioning and—”

“Yeah, sure, Kenny. I’ll get right on that,” Stan mumbles, trying to focus on the road, but Kenny’s monologue is relentless.

The drive through Trinidad is the last stretch of Colorado before they officially leave their home-state behind. The sky stretches endlessly, a flat canvas of blue meeting the asphalt road.

“Goodbye, Colorful Colorado!” Kenny bellows, voice muffled by the rush of air. His arms swing in exaggerated waves, as if saying goodbye to a lifelong friend — which, to be fair, Colorado certainly could be counted as such. Seeing as the boys rarely ever left the state in such a way.

Stan’s eyes flick toward the rearview, half-expecting Kenny to fly out the window any second. The blonde is laughing and whooping like an American tourist. Which to be fair, as of right now, he kind of is. The others laugh, each of them shouting their own ridiculous goodbyes, adding their own theatrics. Cartman mimics Kenny's overly enthusiastic voice, but doesn't risk falling out of the moving car, while Kyle sticks his head out, waving into the dust they leave behind. Even Stan chuckles quietly, shaking his head as the laughter echoes around the car.  

They hit the New Mexico border, a sign flashing by their right side. 

Welcome to 

NEW MEXICO

The Land of Enchantment

Cartman, never one to miss an opportunity for a quip, is quick to blurt out,“Minecraft-ass state.”

Kenny snorts, glancing out the window. "What the hell do you mean?"

“The Land of Enchantment, duh. Plus,” He gestures vaguely out the window, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “it’s all just desert blocks and cactus.”

Kyle immediately rolls his eyes, ready to shoot back. “That’s not at all New Mexico’s geography, you dumb fuck. There’s mountains, forests, even grasslands. It’s not just some desert wasteland.”

Cartman scoffs, already gearing up for another round. Oh my goooood, someone shut the nerd up before I fist his mouth.”

Stan rolls his eyes, "You’re an idiot.” 

“I’m the idiot?” Cartman fires back, pointing a thumb towards the red head next to him, “I’m not the lame nerd giving a TED Talk about freaking dirt and weed, Stan! Jewish Yosemite Sam right here is!”

Kyle groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not about dirt and weed! It’s basic geography, Cartman. You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Oh yeah, Kyle?” Cartman interrupts, crossing his arms, “Because I bet if we look around a bit, we can find some obsidian for an enchantment table in the ‘Land of Enchantment’”

“You’re literally— I can’t—  New Mexico is—”

“—a freaking Minecraft server.” Cartman finishes, cutting him off.

Their bickering escalates, with Kyle listing actual facts about New Mexico’s terrain one after the other while Cartman continuously butts in with nonsensical Minecraft comparisons. Kenny and Stan exchange a look.

“Think they’ll kill each other before we even hit Santa Fe?” Kenny asks, grinning.

Stan lets out a faint chuckle, keeping his eyes on the road. “It's already a lost battle. Logic doesn't win arguments.”

They get over the adrenalin from crossing the state borders as quickly as they received it. Driving through Raton, briefly glancing at the small town as they roll by, then speed through Springer without much thought. Top Hits of 2013 blasting from the radio channel fills the space as they continue on, barely registering the quick passes through towns like Valmora. It’s just the road ahead and the occasional sing-alongs to the songs between their banters. Stan can’t give any more details to topic, he has no idea what the songs are or how they sound.

Kenny leans forward in his seat, peering out the window with a sinister grin.

"Las Vegas, baby.” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Here we are in the Sin City, Eric!”

"Look, Cartman," Kyle jumps in, "we’re here. Ready to win big?"

“Screw you guys.”

“Too bad you’re stuck with us for the Grand Canyon.” Stan responds, can’t help but tease him a little bit more.

After nearly four hours on the road, the cramped car feels suffocating. Stan’s hands are clamped on the wheel, and his eyes have that tired glaze from the monotony of the long journey, unused to driving for so long.

Kenny shifts in the seat, letting out a dramatic groan, flopping his head to the side to stare at Stan, "Dude, I can’t sit here anymore. I swear my ass is getting flatter by the second, let’s take a break.”

“That’s his entire livelihood, Stan, you better listen to the poor guy.”

Kyle, who’d been scrolling on his phone for the past half hour, suddenly perks up. "Hey, there’s a state park nearby," he says, showing his screen to Stan. "Storrie Lake. It’s got restrooms and everything."

"Restrooms sound good," Cartman chimes in, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His squirming earns him a sharp side-eye from Kyle.

Stan nods automatically. "I’ll take the next exit."

He exits the main road, following Kyle’s directions and winding through streets until they reach the park entrance. When Stan parks the car, everyone seems to exhale collectively, their legs stiff and sore from the long drive.

The sun is high, beating down on them in the late afternoon heat, but the cool air from the nearby lake is a welcome relief. The boys throw themselves out of the car, their bodies stiff from the long drive.

Stan takes a deep breath, the crisp, dry air filling his lungs, as he closes the door behind him. He leans against the car for a moment, hands on his hips. The park is peaceful, quiet except for the occasional chirping of birds around. The four boys start stretching their limbs, walking in random directions to relieve the tension.

“Man, I needed this,” Kyle mutters, stretching his arms above his head, then leaning back to crack his back, groaning at the release. Stan winces at the sound, he has never liked how easily Kyle could crack and pop his joints, as he follows through the stretching routine instilled in him during his time in the pysch ward.

They huddle together near the car and to grab some of the sandwiched from the cooling bag before walking down toward a patch of grass. Cartman immediately dumps his stuff in Stan’s arms to grab Kenny’s arm and takes him to find the restrooms, leaving Stan and Kyle alone.

Great.

Stan shifts his weight from one foot to the other, balancing Cartman and Kenny’s bags awkwardly in his arms. Kyle stands a few feet away, hand immediately taking his phone out of his pockets, the other fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. The air between them feels heavier than it should, especially in open-air, near such a clear lake.

Stan clears his throat. “You wanna sit?” He gestures vaguely toward the patch of grass near the lake.

Kyle looks up from his phone, nodding a bit too quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”

They walk side by side in silence, the crunch of their footsteps on dry grass filling the gap where a conversation might’ve been.Stan sets the bag down, crouching to unzip it. He pulls it open, revealing a mix of sandwiches from all their moms, packed together in the cooler bag. He hands one to Kyle without a word or a look. It’s difficult to look at him when they’re alone.

“Thanks,” Kyle says, sitting cross-legged and carefully peeling back the plastic wrap. He stares out at the lake, the water rippling gently under the breeze. Stan takes his place next to him, though a few feet away. He picks at his sandwich absentmindedly, taking small bites

“How’s school been?”

Kyle glances at him, startled by the question, not expecting Stan to initiate anything, “It’s fine,” he says, his tone hesitant but not cold. “Busy, you know. AP classes and all that.”

Stan nods slowly and doesn’t press, “Right.”

“Yeah.” Kyle takes another bite, chewing the piece a lot longer than usual. He swallows and looks back at the lake. “How about you? You still doing music stuff?”

Stan shrugs. “Not really.”

“Hmm.” Just like him, Kyle doesn’t press, and the quiet creeps in again.

Stan sets his sandwich down and leans back on his hands, squinting at the sunlight peeking between the leaves of the large tree. Kyle’s presence next to him, the familiar silhouette of his oldest friend, is something he cannot associate a single emotion with. It’s confusing. It’s too much for Stan.

Kyle shifts, fiddling with his phone before setting it down on the grass. “It’s nice out here,” he says finally, almost to himself.

Stan nods. “Yeah. It is.”

The silence returns, but this time it feels less suffocating. They sit there, side by side, watching the lake. Stan can feel the latter shift around, peeking glances at him. He doesn’t say anything, if Kyle really wants to say something, he will.

The redhead proves Stan’s point when he finally speaks.

“Dude. You’re not actually gonna give the sword to Kenny, right?”

Stan laughs at that, not expecting Kyle to bring up the freaking item again. He must really want it, he thinks.

“Don’t worry, dude. I’ll send it to your account when we get back.”

“Wait. Really?”

“Yeah, dude, why not?”

Kyle bites his lip , “Well, that’s not what I meant. It’s still a good item.” He says, keeping his eyes on the lake, “You should keep it.” 

That’s... unexpected. What good would it even do for Stan? Kyle can’t actually think there’s a chance of Stan coming back to join them in raids or dungeons. Stan’s not coming back. He’s not sticking around for any of this much longer. The thought brings him an odd sense of relief.

And Kyle? Kyle never said anything before, he was the one who decided to stop being friends with him, and Stan didn’t fight it. He agreed, after all. Kyle was right to leave him behind. He’s no good for anyone, especially for Kyle.

Your negativity is poison to me

So why say something like this? Stan tries to make sense of it, but it’s like fitting a lego piece into a puzzle. It just doesn’t happen. He doesn’t believe for a second that Kyle actually wants him back in his life

Whatever it is, it doesn’t make sense to Stan. He can’t begin to dwell too much into it when his phone buzzes in his backpocket.

Shelley

hey

hows it going

send pics

lmk if u need anything

if u want me to k that fatass or not

or kyle

Mom

Hello sweetie

How are you?

Just wanted to check in, honey.

Did you guys make it to Santa Fe safe and sound?

Call me if you ever need anything.

Love you.

His mom and Shelley had texted at almost the exact same time. Stan had spent years watching the worry lines deepen on his mom’s face. He saw how Shelley developed a hardened edge. Her eyes sharper, her forehead perpetually creased with frustration.

It's not hard to imagine what had happened: Shelley had probably asked their mom if she’d checked in on him, and when the answer was “no,” they both sprang into action, texting him immediately. Their texts mirrored their personalities—and their vastly different approaches to parenting Stan. His mom’s message was soft, first easing her way into a conversation, then, almost pleadingly, checking in. Shelley’s, blunt and direct, cut straight to the point. Ever since he was fourteen, they’d clashed over what they thought was best for him. His mom leaned toward gentleness, trying so hard coddle and shield him, while Shelley opted for bluntness, actively going out of her way to do things to get Stan out of his room and out of his head. Both were so certain their way was the right one, and it had led to more tension than one could’ve imagined.

It was late afternoon, the kind of orange-red sky that made the house feel even more still than usual. The house was still and peaceful, with only the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click-click of the dogs' paws echoing through the air, a clear sign that their nails needed trimming. The living room was dim, they didn’t like to turn on all the lights in the house anymore. The flickering light of the nearby floor lamp casting shadows on the walls. It was one of their usual weekend puzzles—just a 2k piece that they started assembling as snacks, this time of a scenic image of a mountain lake much like Stark’s Pond, the pieces scattered across the puzzle table. Sharon sat beside him, and Shelley, for once, had joined them, a guest appearance in what used to be just a mother-and-son ritual.

Stan picked up a piece and stared at it for a moment. It was blue with a white line, almost like a glimmer of light reflected on a wave. He carefully placed it near the center of the puzzle into the Lake Pile, right in the middle of the borders they built first by separating the corners from the rest. The lake was at the heart of the image, so he made sure to keep that piece close.

It had been weeks since he’d been home from the residential center, but it still felt like he was walking through the days in a haze. The school felt unfamiliar and colder than ever. He didn’t like to think about it, let alone talk about it, it filled him with dread. Shelley’s presence, though unexpected, was grounding, as if she was filling a space that had always felt too empty before. She drove them to school and back, subtly checked on him during breaks, even talked with Mr Mackey for him.

Sharon was the one who typically led the puzzle sessions. She hummed softly as she worked, fitting pieces together with a gentle rhythm. Every so often, she glanced at Stan, her gaze soft, but always a little heavy, like there was something unspoken between them. He knew it wasn’t just the silence in the room. There was more beneath it. They hadn’t talked much since he got back. They had the Big Talk. But other than that, they didn’t say much except countless Good Mornings and Good Nights, ‘How are you’s and ‘I’m good’s.

Shelley, on the other hand, rarely joined in on these evenings, perhaps thinking it’s a Mom & Stan thing and not wanting to intrude — Stan didn’t know. But tonight, she seemed content to sit quietly in the corner, her hands absently sorting the puzzle pieces according to color and pattern. There was a quiet tension between her and Sharon, though it wasn’t immediately obvious. It was in the way Sharon would occasionally glance at Shelley, as if waiting for something that never came, and in the way Shelley would stiffen slightly whenever their she felt their mom’s eyes on her.

Stan felt it, the subtle undercurrent of something that wasn’t being said. He didn’t know if it was something he should care about, but it made his chest tighten, an unspoken weight he wasn’t sure how to deal with.

“So, Stan,” Sharon said, breaking the silence. “How’s school been going?”

Stan shrugged, picking at the edge of a puzzle piece absently. “It’s fine.”

“You should try talking to some of the kids in your class,” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent. “They’re all your friends. You don’t have to isolate yourself.”

Stan didn’t respond at first. He just stared at the puzzle, fiddling with the pieces. He didn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it made it feel real, something irreversible, and he didn’t want that.

Shelley, for once, spoke up, her voice low but clear. “Mom.”

Sharon looked at Shelley for a moment, as if startled by her words. For a brief second, their gazes met, and Stan could feel the tension flare between them—thin, almost invisible, but palpable. He didn’t know what had caused it, but there was something there that hadn’t been resolved.

Sharon blinked and nodded, pulling back. She focused on the puzzle again, her fingers working the pieces with quiet precision. “Right, right. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Stan felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. It wasn’t just Sharon’s words that made him uneasy—it was the way she said them, like she was trying to convince herself more than him.

Stan grabbed a white piece, handing it over to Shelley who sat nearest to the Snow Pile they reserved for the whites. “It’s good, Stan. You’re doing good.” she said, her voice broke the silence.

Stan didn’t look up, but he could feel the warmth of her words, the quiet comfort, and the simple manner in which she offered it. She wasn’t just talking about the puzzle. She was talking about him. 

Stan knew what was happening. 

Shelley and Sharon were both trying to fill the hole Randy had caused and left behind. Both of them, in different ways, were doing their best to be the parent he needed, even if they didn’t know how. Shelley wasn’t just the scary sister in the room next to his anymore. She was trying to be more than that. She was trying to be both the attentive mother and the dependable father he never had. It was unspoken, but he could see it.

Sharon, on the other hand, was trying to heal the cracks, doing her best to pull Stan back from the edge, always afraid of holding on too tight and letting too loose at the same time.

But even though they both meant well, Stan couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all. It was suffocating sometimes, the pressure to be okay when he wasn’t. And yet, despite everything, he understood. He knew they were trying. He just wasn’t so sure that it wasn’t all a lost cause.

He texts them back quickly, knowing his mom would go into a spiral and Shelley would ring the FBI if he waited too long to respond while he’s too far away from either of them. Additionally, he sends a quickly snapped photo of the Storrie Lake to Shelley.

Shelley

wow

huge ass lake

call me sometime

u dont have 2 call mom

but u have to call me

The fluorescent lights of the McDonald's flickered softly overhead, casting a luminescent glow across the worn red-and-yellow décor, the scent of grease, fries, and greasy fries in the air. Stan and Shelley sat in a booth near the corner, the usual clink of trays and soft murmur of other customers around them. Shelley had already gone halfway through her burger, her eyes darting over to Stan who was poking at his fries with a distracted look on his face. His burger still had more than half left, sitting untouched on the wrapper, waiting for him.

Stan’s mind was still hazy. His thoughts cloudy, as they often were these days, numbed by a combination of meds and words. It has been a little more than a month since he was discharged from the treatment center, but it still felt awkward. He should’ve already started his freshman year, making awkward small talk with friends, hanging out at the mall, and doing things that didn’t involve constant counseling and check-ups. Instead, he had spent that first month locked up in Denver. On his own fault? Yeah. Didn’t make it any less frustrating.

But here he was now, sitting across from Shelley, who’s always bought him dinner after of his therapy sessions. She hasn't outright said it, but he knew she’s worried. He overheard her talking to their mom one night, saying that she was afraid he’d wither away in that house. He heard his mom's cries, and his heart felt like it was closing on itself. Shelley, ever the protective older sister, has taken a different approach, always going head-first into problems, said she won't let that happen while she's still in the house. Not like their mom, who’s too afraid to upset him, too afraid to ask if he’s okay.

Stan picked up a fry and dipped it in the ketchup, dragging it around the paper parchment, spreading red over it, no clear motive in his movements. Shelley watched him for a moment, then leaned back into the red cushioned seat, taking a sip from her  vanilla milkshake.

"You know," she started, her voice softer than usual, "I’ve been thinking.”

Stan looked up, giving her a halfhearted glance. "About what?”

"About teaching you how to drive." Shelley has said it casually, but Stan could see the weight behind her words. "Not now, obviously," she added quickly, catching the look on his face. "But, you know, later.”

He didn’t ask why, or what brought that on. They both knew why. Randy was never going to do it. Even if he wanted to, he’d have to go through his mom and Shelley first. And his older sister would rather carve him a new lung cavity than let Stan into a car with Randy.  

Meanwhile their mom... their mom saw him as a baby, now more than ever, and treats him like he’s too weak for the world. Stan never really showed it, but he could feel it. The way she hovered, the way she thought he wasn’t ready for things. How could something feel so suffocating, and yet so comforting at the same time? He hated it that.

Shelley cleared her throat, stealing a fry from Stan’s try and dipped it in her milkshake, “I know I’m not... I’m not really dad, I’m not trying to be, but I can help. I’ll teach you. I know it’s not the same, but I’ll be there for you, Stan. You know that, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately because he wasn’t sure how to. He knew, of course he did — his sister, the one who had held his shoulders so tight as they watched Randy pack up his business, pack up his part in their lives and leave without looking back. It had been a moment that was both a goodbye and a loss, sometimes he still felt her trembling hands on his shoulder, not from sadness, but from anger. The rage beyond belief, the kind that came from seeing Randy twist Stan’s mind to the point they had reached, only for him to just up and leave without a second thought.

He didn’t know what to say, but he knew he didn’t have to. Shelley was doing what their parents never did — stepping up, taking the reins into her hands and pulling Stan back from the cliff he was so adamant on heading toward.

“I know,” he finally said, voice quiet, but he meant it, he really did. “Thanks.”

Shelley smiled, but it was small. It was a start. “You’re welcome.”

Kenny and Cartman return with easygoing springs in their steps, their laughter carrying faintly on the breeze. Without hesitation, they flop down onto the grass — Cartman landing with a relieved sigh and Kenny grinning as he stretches out his legs, his worn out sneakers nearly touching Stan’s knee.

“Pass me one of Liane’s, dude,” Kenny says, reaching for the cooler bag with grabby hands, “I’ve been waiting for this since crack of dawn.”

Stan tosses him one, and Kenny practically rips the foil open, already inhaling the sandwich. “By the way, the toilet’s not so bad.”

“You guys took your time,” Stan observes, raising an eyebrow.

Kenny flicks his head toward Cartman. “Erectile dysfunction is not a joke, man. I had to hold his dick up just so Eric could piss.”

Cartman, mouth full, gives a distracted nod, chewing away. “Yeah, then I had to repay him with backshots. Sorry we took so long. Clean floors, though.”

Kyle frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stop, you guys. We’re eating.”

Stan smirks, watching Kenny stuff other half the sandwich into his mouth. “How’s it taste, Kenny?”

“Good Lord in Heaven. Bless Liane Cartman and her wondrous fingers,” Kenny lets out a moan, still chewing. “May she only know peace and love in her life.”

"Amen." Cartman replies, gulping his own bite down with a swig of soda, then burps at the same time Stan’s phone rings with a notification.

Josh (Superior)

come 2 boulder

Stan

im in nm 

Josh (Superior)

ur missing guac & roll

Stan  

the what

Josh (Superior)

kys

Stan

??

Josh (Superior)

just joshin

hehe

come 2 boulder

Josh’s stupid random messages aren’t anything new. At one point, Stan thought he’d finally blocked him, but the druggie ginger started using their chat as his personal feelings journal. Stan never bothered to read through all the messages. Josh would text every now and then, inviting Stan to Boulder for whatever bizarre thing he was doing at the time—usually when he was tripping balls, which was honestly more often than not.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Stan? Stan Marsh?”

“Yes?”

“You are still alive!”

“Uh," Stan took the phone away from his ear and checked the number again, “Who is this?”

“Man. It’s me!”

“Who are you?”

“Can’t believe this fucking—” The voice on the other end of the line quieted down, as if the receiver’s been muffled on purpose “It’s Josh, man. Josh Beathan. From Superior? Boulder? Remember?”

“How the fuck did you get my number?”

“Well, great to hear you too. Motherfucker.” Josh sounded as happy go lucky as ever, “So I ended up back in the hospital a few months back and they moved me to rehab, so… I asked after you in Denver Health, long story short, managed to snag your contact info. Only took me a some magical fairy dust…and I really don’t mean drugs.”

“What’d you do? OD again?”

“Nope. Got busted by my brother. Fucking moron beat me up, then ran to tell our parents. Little rat.”

“Okay…Why did you call me?”

“Coming back here reminded me of you, man. I really thought you’d be done by now, if we’re being honest.”

Stan paused at that, his mind processing Josh's bluntness. It was a far cry from the coddling and sensitive handling he'd been subjected to for the better part of the past year. Josh didn’t tiptoe around things; he just laid it out there, raw and unfiltered.

“I thought so too, I guess. Can’t really do anything about that, not right now.”

“Well, don’t. Let’s keep in contact, yeah? I like you, Stan. You’re cool.”

“Are you high right now?”

A booming laughter erupted through the speaker —so loud that Stan winced, instinctively pulling his phone away from his ear. It was the kind of laugh that could fill a room, the sort that had always seemed so out of place in the sterile quiet of their little hospital room that Stan had grown used to.

“Hell yeah, man. I’ll text you later, bye!”

The boys has settled into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from years of familiarity, despite Stan’s years separated the group. Each of them, in their own way, relaxes in the moment. Kenny laying down on his back, Cartman mindlessly munching on tortilla chips, Kyle scrolling through his phone, and Stan resting his head on his knees, watching the gentle ripples of the lake. When Kyle’s nagging starts, they force themselves to get up and pack up their junk, tossing empty sandwich wrappers, cans, and snack bags into the trash.

“Okay, time for our first actual stop.” Stan mutters as he starts the car. The engine hums to life and the red pickup truck gets back onto the road, heading toward Santa Fe. 

They’re all a bit sluggish from the break, but as they pile back into the car, the scorching sun now high in the sky and the journey to Santa Fe just on the rise, something shifts. Particularly for the blonde/brunette duo of the four.

Kenny and Cartman, fresh off their food coma, and restocked with energy, lock eyes with the matching grins. They’ve been quiet for all of five minutes of stepping into the car, their food-induced energy quickly revived by their favorite pastime. Kenny snatches up the aux cord and tosses it to Cartman, who immediately cues up The Fame Monster, essentially hijacking Stan’s truck. They switch songs as easily as they change lanes—one minute it’s Bad Romance, the next it’s LoveGame, then Poker Face (Cartman’s very obvious favorite track on the album) , and soon they’re both screaming along to Summerboy like they’re at a concert. The two are completely oblivious, to how out of tune they sound as the song continues. They’re loud, they’re off-key, and they couldn’t care less. 

“We’re so back, Moop!” Kenny yells between lines.

“Hell yeah!”  Cartman matches his energy, hands up in the air as he sings along, “Dude, we're getting the band back together!” 

Kyle snickers at that, takes off an earpod and looks at Cartman.

“But you ain’t got rhythm, Cartman.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kyle sighs, muttering something about a show Ike watches, and puts back the earpod in. Stan, though he can hear Kenny and Cartman’s voices, off-key and scratching as it is, can’t really perceive the background noise it comes with. At the moment, it’s become a blessing and a curse.

“Let's get lost, you can take me home~” Kenny leans towards makeshift microphone in Cartman’s hands when it’s his turn to sing, “Somewhere nice, we can be alone~”

“Bikini tops, poppin' oh oh off ~” Cartman joins in, they keep mirroring each other’s energy and building up on that, and soon they’re singing together louder than ever.

Kyle’s tolerance runs out, and he slouches forward from his spot in the backseat, “Next stop, I’m calling shotgun,” he announces into Stan’s ear, ”I can't handle another round of this. I’m losing fucking my mind.”

Stan doesn’t respond, just locks eyes with Kyle in the rearview mirror, feeling the corners of his mouth climb into a smile. It’s not the worst thing that’s happened on this trip.

At 1:27 pm, they roll into Santa Fe. The weather has grown too hot by the time they pull into a quiet stretch of the city and the final chorus of Summerboy echo into the open air.

The day was crisp, with a cool breeze sweeping through their driveway, where Shelley had all but chained Stan down to teach him how to change a tire. 

She made Stan basically drop kick the lug wrench — Don’t be a wimp, Stan, put your weight onto it. After that, they jacked up the car, popped off the hubcap, took the lug nuts off. Easier said than done, though, Stan was sure his arms were going to ache for days.

He now sat on the asphalt, legs crossed and shoulders slumped, taking a break from the forced labour he was trapped into as he watched Shelley demonstrate how to tighten the lug nuts on the new tire.

“You gotta do it in a star pattern,” she explained, her voice firm but not conceited. She wiped her hands on a rag, smudges of dirt streaking her fingers. “If you don’t, wheel will go loose. Equal torque, or something.” Shelley tossed the tire iron over to her brother.

Stan winced as he caught the lug wrench in his hands, as if the thin glorified stick had a danger of hurting him. “How do you even know all this?”

“Uncle Jimbo,” she said casually. “When you were in the hospital, I wanted to keep busy.” She shot him a quick glance before looking away, her hands gathering her brown hair into her fist, patting her jacket’s pockets for a hair-tie. “I worked at his store for a bit. Spent some time hanging out with him and Ned.”

“Well, I know you worked there.” Stan frowned, looking up at her. “Jimbo taught you?”

“Yeah,” Shelley said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “I mean, it was either that or sit at home and listen to Mom pacing across our creaky wooden living room floor. I can hear it from my room, you know. Plus, Jimbo’s not as much of a jackass as you think —once you get past the war flashbacks and the PTSD and the creepy taxidermy collection.”

Finally finding a hair-tie in the back-pocket of her jeans, Shelley tied her hair into a low ponytail, “Figured you’d need this one day, so I learnt it first.”

Stan could tell she was downplaying it, but he didn’t push. He knew Shelley well enough now, to recognise when she was holding something back. She wasn’t the type to spell things out, especially when it came to feelings, but her actions always spoke loud enough.

“You really learned all this, for me?” he asked quietly, his voice cracking toward the end — he blamed it on puberty, on his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control.

Shelley straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t get all sappy on me, turd. I just didn’t want you, or me, needing Randy for anything.” Her tone was even, but there was an undercurrent of anger, defensiveness. 

Stan looked at his older sister. Shelley had been the one to call out Randy’s nonsense back then too. Their mom was too forgiving, too willing to overlook Randy’s screw ups, and Stan too apathetic. She wasn’t just angry at their dad—she was determined to make sure Stan never felt like he needed him.

He looked back at the lug wrench, his grip tightening around the cold iron. “Okay, so... star pattern?”

“Yup,” Shelley said, scooting closer to Stan and pointing at the wheel. “Start with this one, then the one across from it. Keep going like that.”

Stan followed her instructions, his arms shaky from all the work, but Shelley didn’t criticise. She just watched, correcting him when needed, her tone patient but firm.

When they were done, and the spare tire was securely in place, Shelley handed him the rag to wipe his hands. “See? Not rocket science. Us rednecks can easily do it.”

He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth tugging into a faint smile. “Thanks, Shelley.” 

Stan didn’t think he ever meant anything more.

Shelley, 

We got a lot closer after dad left and that’s saying something. It’s been awkward at times, but I don’t think I would have it any other way.

I’m sorry for doing this to you. I know you’ve been trying so hard to help me, and with anyone else, it probably would’ve worked. But it’s me, it’s because of me that it didn’t. I just can’t seem to hold onto anything I try to reach for.

Thank you for being there for me whenever I looked for someone. Thank you for being the dependable older sister I’ve grown to rely on. Thank you for teaching me how to drive, how to buy gas, how to change tires, how to park, how to bake, how to learn. I think I enjoyed being your student more than anything in these past few years. 

You’d be a great teacher. You’re going to be an even better nurse.

I love you Shell. Thank you. I’m sorry.

Stan

Chapter Text

Stan drives through the roads of Santa Fe, the warm sun beating down on the car as the early August heat starts settling in. The afternoon sunlight casts long shadows over the adobe-style buildings, making everything almost glow, but the boys are less enchanted and more exhausted.

Kyle’s eyes are glued to his phone screen, scrolling through websites for reviews as he looks for a place to stay.

“Okay, here’s one,” Kyle extends his arm into the front seat to show Kenny and Stan, ignoring Cartman’s chin jutting forward to get a peek. “It’s a B&B, looks nice, right by the plaza…”

“Dude, $180?!” Kenny exclaims from his seat, leaning forward to look at the screen. “Yelp is full of cum-eating fags. Forget that shit.” 

“First of all, this is Google reviews—”

“More fags.”

“The safety certifications-”

“A hundred and eighty bucks— are you kidding—”

“I know it’s expensive,” Kyle snaps. “It’s high season, Kenny. What do you expect?”

“Uhh, less than fifty bucks?”

More scrolling.

“Alright, this one’s got great reviews and, hold on, a charming Southwestern atmosphere,” he tries again, “Only... one-fifty a night.”

Kenny groans loudly, tossing his head back against the headrest. 

“We don’t need ‘charming Southwestern atmosphere,’ we just need four walls and a door that locks.” Cartman says, leaning forward and poking his head between the front seats,“Preferably. Stan, keep going ‘till we see a big ass vacancy sign.”

Kenny snickers, but Kyle doesn’t look amused. “Oh, yeah sure, that’s smart. Let’s pick somewhere where we might actually get stabbed in our sleep. Then robbed. Stabbed and robbed.”

Stan, already done with the entire search process, looks ahead, shaking his head. "We’ll find a place. No need to get all worked up about it." He eases the car into another lane.

"Exactly," Cartman says, "And y;know what? The sketchier, the better."

Kyle frowns, “Yeah, better chances for us to get fucking murdered.”

Stan stifles a laugh at the sight of Kyle’s pout, his cheek squished against his fist as he leans against the window. “You want me to pull over somewhere, or are we to drive around until your dream motel—safe and cheap—manifests to reality?”

“Dreams are for the rich,” Kenny chimes in, “We’re looking for a nightmare under fifty bucks.”

Kyle exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. “Sure, let’s go cheap. Wake up covered in bedbugs, get lured into a sex-trafficking ring—hell, maybe we don’t wake up at all.”

“Well, Kenny, you’re already two steps ahead of us. Next stop—murdered in your sleep,” Cartman quips without missing a beat.

“You’re just jealous 'cause you wouldn’t fit in a sex-trafficking ring, fat-ass.”

They find a decent looking place.

The building is a low, rectangular structure with a flat roof, painted in a dull off-white. There is the vacancy sign they’ve been looking for, a bright red neon, flickers intermittently by the parking lot. The parking lot is small, but mostly empty, only a few sun-baked cars scattered near the entrance.

Stan cuts the engine, leaning back with a sigh as they all sit in the car, staring at the motel’s entrance. The silence hangs for a beat before Kyle claps his hands. “Not it!”

“Not it!” Cartman is half a second behind.

Stan shakes his head just as Kenny blurts out his own Not it, pushes open his door, and gets out. “Nope. We’re all going in. Come on.”

The others groan but follow suit, shuffling out of the car. Stan naturally takes the lead, walking toward the door. The others fall in line behind him— Cartman and Kenny chatting, Kyle with hands in his pocket-- like it's second nature to do so. 

Kyle leans in close to Cartman, pinches the other boy’s elbow and shout-whispers, “I have a note on my phone just in case: If I go missing, it’s Cartman’s fault.”

“Shut up, Kyle,” Cartman snaps, shaking him off.

Inside, the scent of cheap air freshener mingles with the cold AC air. Behind the desk, the motel owner, a graying man with receding — very much receded — hairline and a name tag that reads Roy, glances up.

“You boys need a room?” Roy asks. He sizes them up briefly, clearly clocking them as young, and a potential hassle.

“Yeah,” Stan says, “One for all of us, please.”

“Two full beds. No smoking.” Roy folds his arms across his chest “Eighty. No deposit if cash.”

“We’ll take—” Before Stan can even reach for his wallet, Kenny and Cartman exchange a glance and step forward to stand in front of Stan, a synchronised duo ready to pounce.

“Eighty? Nani!?” Kenny says, earning himself a revolted side-eye from Kyle which he ignoreds, eyes dropping to the balding man’s name-tag. “For this place? Come on, Roy, don’t we know better?”

“Yeah,” Cartman chimes in, “We’re just passing through. You can’t give us a lil' discount? Nobody else is even here.” he says, gesturing to the room keys still on the wall.

Roy narrows his eyes. “It’s tourist season. Prices are what I tell you.”

“Tourist season?” Kenny leans against the counter, propping his chin on both hands, “For anywhere else but here, maybe. You’ve got two cars in the lot, man. Three now, and that’s us. What tourists?”

“You.”

“Nuh-uh. We’re more like… free-spirited wayfarers. Footloose wanderers. Roaming pilgrims—”

“I’m doin’ you rascals a favor, how old even are—”

“Look, Roy,” Cartman leans on the counter like he’s negotiating a major business deal. “We’ll give you fifty bucks cash right now, and you don’t even have to clean up after us. We’ll literally sleep, then bolt, poof.”

"We won’t even use the pool. It’s a beautiful pool, by the way— that's definitely not stagnant water in there.”

“Seventy,” Roy counters, though his gruff tone begins to waver. His gaze flicks to the wall clock, betraying a vulnerability that foreshadows his imminent surrender. From the corner of his eye, Stan detects a predatory glint in Cartman’s gaze, signaling that he, too, is aware of the same thing.

For a split second, in Stan’s eyes, Cartman morphs into a raccoon. Sharp-eyed and twitching with anticipation, zeroing in on an unsuspecting bird’s nest.

“Sixty, and we promise we won’t do a single number two. Cross my heart,” Kenny says, drawing an invisible cross over his chest.

Roy sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Sixty-five. But if there’s any trouble—”

“Sixty? Deal!”

“No trouble at all!” Cartman cuts in, “You won’t even know we’re here.”

Stan and Kyle exchange a glance, both exasperated yet silently impressed. Without a word, Cartman slaps two crumpled twenties, a ten, and a five on the counter. Kenny snatches the key Roy slides toward him and starts spinning it around his finger.

Byt when Roy sees the money put on the counter and his nose does a funny thing, and Kenny immediately gestures for Kyle and Stan to leave, the duo roll up their sleeves for another round of haggling.

As they head back to the car to grab their bags, “How the hell did they do that?” Stan asks Kyle.

Kyle shrugs, “They're like supervillains reincarnated. Cartman’s the mastermind, and Kenny’s the smooth-talking pretty face who gets everyone on his side without lifting a finger.” He shakes his head. “It’s terrifying how good they are at it.”

Stan glances towards the big window of the reception, and sees Kenny and Cartman exchange a high-five, then squints at Kyle. “Kenny’s poor. I get that. Where the hell did Cartman learn to negotiate? He used to sit his fat ass down and cry when he didn’t get his way.”

“Fat-ass found out that negotiating can like, be a form of manipulation and got way too into it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Kyle adds, turning toward the car. “He’s kind of good at it. It’s messed up,”

“Well, that’s not so bad, I guess." Stan kicks a rock along the parking lot as they both open the doors of the car, "For Cartman, I mean. Sometimes I wonder if he got better as we grew up, or if he was really just that awful when we were kids.”

Kyle stops mid-motion, his eyes widening in pure disbelief. “Cartman? Better? You better be joking, dude. I swear he’s been the same level of humanity’s worst since we were five. The only difference now is that he doesn’t even pretend to be subtle.”

Stan shrugs, resting his arm on the open door, “Alright, maybe it’s been a while since I’ve been around him.” He grins at Kyle from the other side of the car. 

“Well, yeah. Do me a favor— come back to this thought after the road trip. I think a week trapped in a car with him is more than enough to remind you just how vile he really is.”

First, they grab their bags from their seats, slang them over their shoulders, then move to the back of the pickup truck to get the cooler bag. They still have some sandwiches left - thanks to their mothers' great effort, they’ll have some spare food for a few more days - and drinks. It’s better to leave the bag in the room with the AC on, so they don’t go bad or boil in the plastic and become cancerous or whatever.

As Kenny and Cartman stroll toward Stan and Kyle across the parking lot, Kenny spins the motel room key around his finger, all proud like they had just pulled off the deal of the century.

“Room secured, gentlemen,” Cartman announces. “You may now refer to me as a Master of the Art of Negotiation.”

“I tried to push for a AAA discount - and no, we don’t even have that membership- but then a vein popped on Roy’s forehead, so I backed off.” Kenny grins in his signature troublemaker nature, grabbing one of the straps of the cooler bag while Kyle rolls his eyes at them. "I know my limits."

“Oh, yeah, further provoke a man who could just enter our room and pour boiling water on us while we sleep. All this for five bucks.”

“Room 42, upstairs." Kenny pouts, "Shame,  just one '0' away from perfection.”

Kyle scoffed. “Yeah, real shame.”

The room is exactly what they expected-- cheap, a little run-down, but with four walls, a ceiling and a door.

Two full beds take up most of the space, their geometrical-patterned bedspreads slightly faded from years of use. A small wooden table sits against the opposite wall, accompanied by one lonely chair with a suspiciously stained cushion. The TV, one of those old boxy models, is bolted to wall above the desk. The AC stays is turned off.

It’ll do. 

No one except Kyle really cares about the material quality surrounding them at the moment anyways.

Kenny lets go of the straps and Kyle and Stan haul the cooler bag inside, tossing it into the corner of the room. Cartman immediately flops onto the nearest bed, stretching out like a starfish.

“Dibs,” he announces.

“There's two beds, dumbass. We’re all sharing either way.” Kyle says, eyes immediately scanning the room with sharp eyes. He starts pacing around, “You guys notice how the mirror’s angled weird? Isn't it too low?” he says, pointing to the mirror above the table, “What if it's like, a two-way mirror?”

“Dude,” Kenny groans, “What are you so worried about? It’s not like we’re about to have an orgy in here or something.”

“Oh, thank God, Kenny. Really needed to hear that from you. I was getting worried 'cause I didn't bring my special edible strawberry-lube." Cartman turns to Kyle, watching the redhead put his index finger on the mirror, and look around it to observe the reflection, "Chill the F out, Jew. No one would pay for this show anyway.”

Kyle glares at both of them,  “I’m just saying, it’s a shady motel, and stuff like this happens. You don’t have to be doing anything for people to spy on you.”

“Oh no, Kyle’s gonna end up on some secret motel livestream.” Kenny puts on a mock-shocked face and slaps his palms against his cheeks, “We have to protect his modesty. Quick, you guys, shield him from defilement.” He holds his arms out in an exaggerated protective gesture, and Cartman joins in, raising his hands against the mirror like it's a stalker trying to come close to a celebrity. Huffing in amusement, Kyle pushes them away.

Stan stands near the doorway, watching as the others bicker and throw their bags around. His stomach twists. When he was a kid, he never had to think about stuff like this. He never worried about partnering up in class.

One, he always had Kyle. Two, if Kyle wasn’t an option, he was Stan, for god’s sake. Nine-year-old him had no problem getting someone to pick him. It just used to be easy. 

Cartman’s already claimed the other bed. Stan knows Kyle doesn’t want to share a bed — not like he blames him. Things have been weird between them for years now, it’s not going to get better all of a sudden after the two short one-on-one talks — yes, Stan can’t help but count — they’ve had so far. So, Kenny. He doesn’t want to assume. Doesn’t want to take up space in someone’s life if he’s not wanted. He can’t keep doing it. What if Kenny doesn’t want to share with him? What if Stan is just a burden, like always? He waits for Kyle to claim the other bed with Kenny, and he'd share with Cartman - Stan surrenders to the inevitable.

Then, like he sensed Stan's inner conflict, Kenny throws an arm around him, pulls him in close, and drags him toward the bed by the window.

"I call Stan!" Kenny announces, voice loud and smug. "Stay away from our bed, and get yourselves some earplugs, ‘cause we’ll be getting busy."

Stan barely has time to blink before he, along with Kyle and Cartman, can register what just happened. The rule of sleepovers now fully in play: the other two have to share.

Kyle immediately recoils. “Dude, Kenny?!”

"No fucking way!" Cartman snaps at the same time, looking personally offended. "Are you- ?

"- fucking serious?!" Kyle glares between them. "No. No way. I’d rather die than share a bed with Cartman."

"Likewise, Jew," Cartman sneers, crossing his arms.

The yelling starts, insults flying back and forth, but Stan doesn’t hear pay attention to it. That feeling in his chest unclenches as Kenny rests his head against Stan’s shoulder, snickering at the chaos he triggered.

It's hard to not appreciate Kenny. It has always been.

Kenny stood in front of the bench, rocking back and forth on his heels, his gaze shifting between Stan and Cartman.

“ Hey, Stan,” he began, “You coming to the skate park later? They’re opening the new half-pipe. Doubled height.”

Stan shrugged,“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“C’mon, dude. It’ll be fun,” Kenny pressed, “You’re home all the time.”

“I’m fine at home,” Stan replied, kicking one foot at the small rocks beneath.

“Sure you are, that’s where the booze stash is after all.”

Kenny shot Cartman an angry glare, but turned back to Stan, his eyebrows softened like he’s waiting for any kind of opening. It almost made Stan take a step. Key word: Almost.

Sigh.

“Fine. Whatever,” Kenny muttered, defeat obvious on is face and voice. “See you, dude.” 

Next school day, they sat together at lunch again, as always.

Kyle had started to sit with Tolkien and others some time ago, but Kenny and Cartman still carried their trays and followed Stan to wherever he ended up eating at. But the rope had thinned, and kept getting thinner, Stan knew it, Cartman knew it, and Kenny knew it. 

Despite everything, Kenny still found his way back to Stan, even if just for a little while. They weren’t the carefree, easy moments they’d had when they were younger, it carried that strain— the kind that resulted when an unstoppable stubborn force (source: Kenny) clashed with an immovable apathy (source: Stan). Two opposing forces locked in a never-ending struggle, neither even close to giving up/

One winter evening, not long after Stan had started breaking apart from their little group, for good, and shortly before the thing between Kyle and him blew up, Kenny showed up at his house unannounced. Stan doesn’t even remember what he was doing at the time, just that he was in his room. Not that he did much anyway.

Kenny hadn’t said anything, just threw himself onto the beanbag and tossed a controller onto Stan’s lap. "Get up," he said. "We’re playing Crash Bash.”

Stan had groaned, muttering something about being too tired, but Kenny didn’t take no for an answer. He grabbed the other controller, dragged the spare, deflated beanbag from under the bed, and started the game anyway.

Stan needed to be quick, so he went to 'splash water on his face to wake up' as Kenny played with the settings. He kept some whiskey in an emptied out mouthwash bottle that he relocated all the time, just in case. The bottle was perfect. He quickly uncapped it, poured some into the cap and downed it. After a lighting speed teeth brush to get rid of some of the smell, Stan plopped himself next to the blonde.

For a few hours, it was like old times- laughing at each other’s stupid mistakes in the game, trash-talking, and shouting in mock outrage when one of them pulled off a cheap move. Brain loosened with alcohol, Stan had even enjoyed it while pretending to do so. Or maybe he was lying to himself? Hell, did it even matter?

It still was hard to be ungrateful to Kenny.

“—There’s a perfectly good floor,” Kyle is saying when Stan finally tunes back into the noise, pointing at the stained carpet floor and a death glare aimed at Cartman.

Cartman, already stretched out across the mattress like a beached whale, doesn’t even look up like he's challenging Kyle to get physical. Knowing him, he probably is.

“So you sleep on the floor.” he shoots back without missing a beat.

“Why the fuck would I sleep on the floor?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re the one bitching about bed space?” Cartman counters, “Besides, I need proper lumbar support. You wouldn’t believe what carrying all this weight does to my back.”

“I would believe it, actually. Your spine is probably begging for mercy under all that.”

Cartman grins, sharp and evil. “You can sleep in the bathtub, oh wait, there isn’t one. Guess you can sleep outside. Y’know, with the rest of your kind- the trash-dwellers.”

“Right. Let me know when the mattress collapses under your weight so we can call a crane to lift your fatass.”

“Nice one, Kyle. Want a cookie for that?”

“I’m gonna smother you in your sleep.”

“Promises, promises.”

Kenny leans over to whisper to Stan, “It’s like foreplay with those two.”

“I’m killing myself.” Kyle shouts as he slams the bathroom door behind him, “Don’t come in.”

“Just make sure you do, Jew.”

“Don’t shit, Kyle, we promised Roy!” Kenny yells after him. then starts snickering at his phone.

He’s holding in it a way Stan can clearly see the conversation, he can’t help but read it — hey, isn’t it human nature to be nosey? Being social animals and shit. Stan remembers reading something similar in Nat Geo Kids' magazine once, in one of the Weird But True pages, or something.

Newkid 🜲

 wtf r u doing in santa fe

Kenny

road trip duh 

Newkid 🜲 

im actually from nm u kno

Kenny

no way dude 

where

Newkid 🜲

roswell

Kenny  

wowo

seriously?

u r an alien?

be fr now

Newkid 🜲 

👽

Kenny

( ˶°ㅁ°) .ᐟ.ᐟ

what lab did u escape from

Stan blinks. “Douchebag’s from Roswell?"

Kenny grins, unfazed by the fact that Stan’s been sneaking a peek at his phone. That's fortunate, because Stan doesn't think he can handle the embarrassment if he had. "Right? We’ve had a whole-ass alien in our class this entire time and didn’t even know it.”

Kyle returns from the bathroom just in time, “Who’s a whole-ass alien?” he asks, coming to stand in front of the AC, his face still glistening from a fresh wash, practically melting in the cool breeze as soon as it hits the water droplets on his skin. Though after a while, he scurries away from the AC, nose crunched up in a way that screamed-- What the fuck was that smell?

“The New Kid.”

“How so?”

“Dude’s from Roswell, apparently.”

“Oh shit, really? Douchebag?”

“One and only.”

“I always thought he was from, I dunno, NYC or some other big city. Always in a rush, going somewhere, but still somehow only a phone-call away—”

“Right?” 

Kyle side-eyes Kenny, “How come you never knew he was from Roswell?”

“I dunno.” Kenny shrugs, “Why would I know that?”

Kyle raises an eyebrow at that. Stan looks between them, not getting the implication.

“‘Cause you talk to him, all the time, Kenny.”

“We text—”

“What even brought this up?”

“He read the boys group chat.”

“Oh.” Kyle eyes Stan, but reverts his look back on Kenny just as quick, “Right.”

 “It’s no biggie, Craig said some stupid shit.” Kenny switches chats on his phone, and nudges Stan, “Look, they couldn’t believe you took us on a road-trip, Stan.”

[SPF18+ BO1 TDM TUE 3PM 11/12]

Kenny

[Photo]

Tolkien

oh shit

u guys r on a roadtrip?

Craig 凸

is that stan

Clyde OWES 9$

no way

gotta be his evil twin 

spam

Craig 凸

whos driving 

u guys cant drive

Kenny

my boy stan can

(੭˃ᴗ˂)੭ᥫ᭡ 

Jimmy IOU 13$

oh wow 

thats unexpected

Tweek IOU 10$

dudehwat

the hell

fr fr?

Scott IOU 7$

our stan?

Butters IOU 44$

aw thats swell

wish i was there with u fellas

Cartman ✂╰⋃╯

and we r glad ur not

Craig 凸

b honest

did he kidnap u guys

Tweek IOU 10$

u think stan can do that??????????

Kyle 

we went willingly 

jackass

Jimmy IOU 13$

cartmans there

so statistically

1 of u is not making it back

David R

where even are u guys?

Kenny

middle of bumfuck nowhere new mexico

we r going 2 santa fe

Cartman ✂╰⋃╯

land of enchantment

apparently

Butters IOU 44$

aww

just like minecraft!

Kenny

lmfao butters

ꉂ(≧▽≦)

Cartman ✂╰⋃╯

god fuckin damnit butters

Tolkien

i feel like i missed a season of ur lives lol

One would think Kenny showing Stan texts from a friend group he’s no longer really welcomed in might be ill-natured—maybe even cruel. But that’s just not Kenny. He doesn’t have it in him to be petty like that, at least not with Stan.

Besides, it's not like they kicked Stan out. It's not like it was Kenny who stopped being friends first. Stan was the one who pulled away, who forced himself apart from them until they stopped trying. If there’s blame to be placed, it falls on him first. And yet, here Kenny is, still acting like nothing has changed.

Maybe that’s why Stan doesn’t have it in him to act uninterested. Plus, Clyde's comment about the evil twin --Spam, that's a good one-- actually gets a chuckle out of him.

“What am I, the local boogeyman?”

“At this point, kinda.”

“So, like ManBearPig?”

Kenny snickers. “ManBearPig was lame. You’re more like some weird hometown legend that nobody actually sees anymore.”

“Right…”

“Okay, maybe not a legend. There’s gotta be something between ManBearPig and a washed-up celebrity.”

“...Cryptid?”

“Perfect.”

“And what the hell is that group name supposed to be?”

“SPF 18+. South Park Faggots 18+ —yes, you can thank Jimmy and Cartman for that — then whatever game we’re currently planning.”  he answers, leaning back against the headboard, distracted by a notification ping. “It’s also the name of our Halo clan.”

“Genius name. This is exactly why ten-year-old clan kids keep roasting us,” Kyle says, holding his phone to his ear as he sits down next to the outlet to plug the charger in, “No, Ike, I wasn’t talking to you—” 

Stan feels his chest tighten at the mention of Ike. 

God, how old is he even right now? Ten? Jesus Christ.

Ike was literally just a baby trailing after Kyle like a little ugly duckling. He barely resembled a human child in Stan’s eyes, for some reason. So much time has passed since.

Kyle has an Ike, dad, why can’t I have one?

After a quick explanation on where they are staying and why, Ike says something on the other line that makes Kyle sigh,  "I texted you the real address, just in case, don’t say anything to Mom, okay? If you do, I’m seriously gonna—” He stops himself, when a muffled reply from Ike comes even through the speaker, making the red-head grumble and drag a palm across his face, “What the fuck is a Hexbug, Ike?”

Rapid, louder, even more incoherent muffles.

"I don't care what Firkle—" But Kyle has given up. “Fine, whatever. You want the stupid toy? I’ll get it, but don’t you dare tell Mom about this.”

After a moment, Kyle lets out a long, heavy sigh as he calls his mom. His voice is cool in that practised I’m-not-lying-to-you-Mom tone. He must’ve perfected it sometime since they were twelve because, while Kyle’s been a smooth talker most of his life, he’s never been this convincing when lying to his mom. “Hey, Mom. I’m good. We’re in Santa Fe for now, at the hotel I just texted you—”

Stan pulls out his phone and quickly sends a message to his mom too. He keeps it short, letting her know.

Stan

hey mom

we made it to santa fe

staying here

[Location]

we're gonna go out to eat now

Stan hesitates for a second, wondering if he should say more, or call, then presses send, his thumb hovering over the screen before getting up. It's time to call Shelley. He gets out of the room and to the tiny balcony overlooking the street. Cars whiz past along the road.

If his sister drilled anything into his head over the past five years, it’s that when she tells him to call, he calls.

The phone barely rings twice before she picks up. There’s noise in the background— voices, laughter, the clatter of plates— she must be with her friends.

“Hey, Stan," she says, “You good? How’s New Mexico?”

“Yeah," Stan leans against the railing, "We made it. Drive was long, air’s hot. We’re chilling in a motel for now, then we'll go out and get food.”

Shelley hums in acknowledgment. Stan hears a faint call of her name in the background, which she ignores.

”You sound tired."

"I am tired, I'm the driver." Stan says. "But it’s fine."

"If you say so. Just don’t push yourself. And make sure you actually eat."

“I will.”

"I'm not talking about those crackers you keep trying to choke on."

"Yeah, I got it. I'll eat everything I can find."

Shelley doesn’t buy it entirely. He knows that. But she lets it slide, for now. "Stay hydrated, too. You’ve been on the road for hours."

Stan huffs a laugh. "I won’t."

"You have to listen to me, I'm a nurse."

"I do listen to you."

She pauses, "If those assholes piss you off, or do something stupid, ditch them and drive back. Or tell me, and I’ll come handle them myself. Fuck them."

Stan shakes his head, "I think I can manage, Shell."

"Just saying," she continues. "Don’t worry about anything. Enjoy your trip, alright?"

She makes it sound so easy. Like enjoying anything is just something he can just decide to do and then do it. But Stan doesn’t say that.

“Yeah, I’ll try.”

“Good.” There’s another pause, a shuffle, “Text me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Shell.”

“Don’t thank me, just don’t be stupid. And send the motel’s address to me.”

“I just sent it to Mom—”

“You didn't send it to me.”

"Okay, okay."

"And text me, if you can't call, when you go back to the motel —"

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay? Have fun, Stan. Talk to you later.”

“Later.”

It was routine, back then.

Every evening, just as the sun dipped low enough to flood Stan’s bedroom with soft orange, his phone would buzz, and Shelley’s name would pop up on the screen.

it was right after Shelley’s last class, sometimes even while she was walking back to her apartment. Stan always picked up, even if he didn’t feel like talking.

Even if all he had in him was a grunt or a barely-there, “Hey.”

“Hey turd,” she’d say, “How’s it hanging?”

It didn't matter to Shelley as long as he picked up. She would fill the silence, like she always did, talking about nothing and everything— about how one of her professors was a total moron who couldn’t work the projector, or how the vending machine in the student lounge ate her dollar and she had to shake it like a maniac to get her chocolate bar. Complaints about how Introduction to Chemistry was kicking her ass, so she had to study daily now just to understand the next lecture. Procrastination was no longer a saving grace.

Stan would just listen, phone pressed to his ear as he lay curled up under his blanket, Sparky at his feet, Belly lying on the floor next to the bed. The sound of Shelley’s voice was grounding in a way nothing else was. It was home, even if she was an hour and a half away.

Stan glanced over at Sparky, "We’re good,” he said, leaning to scratch behind Sparky’s ear. “Sparky's with me, sleeping. Like always.”

“Lazy old man,” Shelley snickered, “How’s the rest of the zoo?”

“Bear stole a pizza slice off the counter. Mom was pissed.”

“Tell mom to not be harsh on my son. No one sent me a photo of him today.”

“Yeah, I was kinda busy. Buffy dug a hole so deep in the backyard she almost hit oil. Mom and I  had to re-fill before it snowed.”

Then she'd ask how school was, a topic she knew Stan didn't like, but still pushed him about, or if he’d seen the latest episode of Modern Family-- he usually didn't, but would move to the living room to watch with his mom just so tell Shelley about it later.

Stan learned it the hard way, the consequences of not picking up Shelley's call, on a cold evening in late November.

It had been a rough week. Getting out of bed was like climbing a mountain with no summit in sight. No clear road either. And no climbing equipments. So, near impossible for Stan, who is a human and not a mountain goat.

His mom had some errands outside, and had to leave Stan alone in the house for a few hours. It wasn’t the first time, and usually, it was fine.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. The warm weight of Sparky curled against his legs, the house so quiet, no footsteps, no clatter from the kitchen, he dozed off.  So, he didn’t hear his phone buzzing on the nightstand. Didn’t see Shelley’s name flash across the screen, then again, then again.

The banging on the front door was what finally woke him up, shaking and jarring, followed by shouting— "Police! Open up!"

Stan stumbled out of bed, half-asleep and disoriented, and opened the door to find two police officers, one he recognized to be Officer Barkley, standing on the porch.

“Stan Marsh?” one asked.

"That's him." Barkley confirmed.

“Y-yeah?” Stan stammered, seeing police on one's door right after a deep nap had him confused as hell. 

“We got a wellness check request from your sister. She’s been trying to reach you.”

Stan muttered something about his phone being on silent and falling asleep. The officers gave the house a quick walk-through just to be sure, asked if anyone else was home, Barkley looking around his room, under his bed and the bathroom for bottles of alcohol or pills, making sure Stan was okay.

The younger officer that Stan didn't know - Officer Moore - even asked to see his arms. They finally left after his mom speeded into the driveway, and gave him a lecture about answering his goddamn phone when his family called, throughout which Stan kept nodding. His mom practically skipped the steps of the porch, and held Stan in her arms, thanking the officers. 

Stan had checked his phone after convincing his mom, yes, he was just sleeping.

21 missed calls from Shelley

7 missed calls from Mom

Shelley had panicked and called the local police all the way from Denver, convinced something had happened.

And when his mom finally got home, there was another call— this time between Shelley and their mom, voices rising loud enough for Stan to hear as he sat on top the staircase, Sparky and Belly by his side. He kept scratching Belly's back so she'd stay quiet.

"Why would you leave him alone all day?!" Shelley shouted, her voice was loud, too loud, carrying itself from the speaker and to Stan's ears, "You know what happened last time! Do you want me to move back home? Is that what it’s gonna take?!"

"I know, Shelley, I know. I just had to leave, and he was sleeping when I left, I checked, trust me—"

Later that night, Shelley called him again. It was a while after her argument with their mom, so Stan had assumed she took some time to cool off before talking to him.

"You answer when I call," she said, taking in a shaky breath. "and when I tell you to call. Even if you’re mad at me, like right now, or if you’re tired. Just — just pick up, okay?"

"I'm not mad at you." Stan said, softly. He already felt bad about this whole thing. "I'm just, embarrassed, I guess, that I made you worry so much over a stupid thing."

"It's not-" Shelley started, her tone must've been sharper than she intended, because she took a deep breath before continuing, "It's not your fault. I guess I'm still getting used to being apart from you guys like this. You're doing good, I shouldn't have- I don't know."

She quieted down, most likely biting the inside of her cheek as she did when she got embarrassed.

"It's not you, Stan. I overreacted, I know. For my sake, call when I tell you to, okay?"

"Okay."

Kyle and Cartman have begun another round by the time Stan comes back to the room, sliding the balcony door shut behind him.

“I swear to God, Kyle, if I have to hear your whiny ass bitch one more time about the AC, I’m gonna-”

“Oh, I’m so sorry that I have a problem with the room smelling like roadkill and meth, Eric.”

“It’s a motel, Jew, not the fucking Four Seasons! What did you expect? A chocolate kiss on your pillow and a blowjob from the housekeeper? That's what you expec? A blowjob from Roy?”

“I expected to not get fucking lung cancer from whatever the hell is in the vents!” Kyle snaps, standing so fast the bed squeaks. “Maybe just one night without inhaling fucking asbestos.”

“What the fuck is ass-bestos-- you’re free to leave and cry in your charming Southwestern atmosphere hotel, Kyle.”

“I swear I'm this close to just fucking going back home, you dipfuck—”

“Do it then! You think we give a shit if you walk back to Colorado? Go ahead, Jew! Start hiking!”

“Guys, come on,” Kenny mutters from the bed, barely looking up from his phone. “You're ruining my mood.”

“Shut up, Kenny!” they shout in unison, then immediately turn back to each other, seething like stray cats fighting over a dumpster.

“You know what your problem is, Cartman?” Kyle hisses. “You’re so fucking fat, you're physically incapable of existing without making everyone else’s life a complete nightmare.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you know what your problem is, dirty Jew? You can’t go five goddamn minutes without lecturing like you know everything. Newsflash: you don’t.”

“Maybe if you weren’t a stupid sack of shit, I wouldn’t have to explain things to you every ten minutes!”

“Maybe if you pulled the stick out of your ass, you’d actually stand straight and see that you’re not on some fucking moral high ground!”

“Maybe if you dropped dead, the carbon footprint of the planet would finally go down and people in India would actually breathe better!”

“Maybe if—”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Stan’s voice cracks through the room like a warning shot, though funnily enough, he didn't even yell there, making both of them freeze. He drops onto the bed next to Kenny, the mattress creaks. “Cartman, maybe go shit your frustration out. I don’t think all that Mountain Dew you inhaled in the car is doing you any favors, dude.”

Kenny barks out a laugh, smacking Stan on the shoulder. Kyle and Cartman both stand there, chests heaving, faces flushed, fists still clenched.

"I’m putting twenty on hate sex.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kenny!” they yell again, another perfect harmony.

But Cartman does listen to Stan and goes to the bathroom, fuming and mumbling on his way, and Kyle kicks him in the knees just as he's closing the door.

Kenny's looks back at his phone, eyes locked onto something. His eyes shift to Stan.

“Stan, you tell me. Is this flirting?” He asks, shoving his cracked, old phone in Stan’s face.

Newkid 🜲

classified.

Kenny

tell me

plz ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀)

Newkid 🜲

1 condition

Kenny  

name ur price 

Newkid 🜲

nxt time

lets go 2 nm together

Kenny  

y

u gonna probe me?

(｡>\\<)

Newkid 🜲

maybe 

Kenny  

(,,¬﹏¬,,)

what shoulda eat

Newkid 🜲

wym

Kenny  

like 

4 lunch rn

since u know all abt nm

Newkid 🜲

hm

ive never been 2 santa fe

but ill ask fb for u

Kenny  

u hate fb

Newkid 🜲

:)

It’s obviously flirting— and from the New Kid's mouth, it's practically a confession.

“I don’t wanna say, duh, but…” he answers, watching Kenny’s eyebrows, a shade of blonde darker than his hair, drop down into a furrow.

 Kyle has moved to the chair, his face returned to its usual paleness instead of looking like a blown tomato can. Cartman lying down on the other bed. For a moment, it’s silent as four of them sit without purpose, and unkowingly formed a circle — well, a square. Or rectangular. Or whatever else has four corners.

“Why, you don’t like him?” Stan asks.

“It’s not that, I don’t know if he likes me…”

“Dude.”

A dragged out groan eminates from the other bed. Cartman raises his head slightly to glance at Kenny, attention pried away for the first time from whatever he was doing on his phone, “Enough already, Kenny. You and Douchebag have been doing this stupid-ass text-dance for years. Just give the boy the green light, or go crash-land on his dick, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You really think he likes me?”

“Oh my fucking god. Yes, asshole, you asked this a hundred times, I’ve said the smae shit a hundred times. He’s the only guy in this world who will date your broke, slutty ass, disease-ridden from a century’s worth of STDs thanks to all those filthy alleyway hookups.”

Kyle looks thoroughly disgusted. “Jesus, Cartman.” he says, “He’s not wrong, though. About Douchebag, I mean. You guys have been at this for years.”

“Nah, he’s just like that,” Kenny says, shrugging as he leans back against the headboard. His phone is still in his hand, Douchebag’s incoming texts lighting up the screen.

Cartman scoffs. “Like what? A bitch?”

“No, dumbass. Just, nice.”

Cartman laughs hard at that. “Nice? Dude. Douchebag’s not nice.” He and Kyle actually share a look at that, both looking like they can’t believe Kenny just said that.

"He's actually kind of a dick.” Kyle nods, and moves from the chair to sit on the edge of Kenny and Stan’s bed.

Kenny frowns at that, glancing at Stan for backup.

“Don’t look at me dude, last I remember, he was kind of a dick.”

“Think about it, dumbass. When has the New Kid ever humored anyone else the way he humors you?”

Kenny rolls his eyes. “What'd you mean ‘the way he humors me’? He’s just quiet.”

“Yeah. Quiet. Not nice. He’s been in our class since fourth grade and still he tolerates like three people at best. He literally doesn’t even pretend to like half our friend group.”

“That’s what I’m saying. He doesn’t respond to us like he does you.”

Kenny is unconvinced. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

Cartman props himself up on his elbows and stares Kenny down.

“Look, if I text Douchebag, he either leaves me on read or tells me to go fuck myself. If Kyle texts him, he answers two hours later with a one-word response. If anyone else texts him, it’s a fifty-fifty between those two depending on his mood. But when you text, he texts back instantly. He sends you minimum two texts one after the another. Doesn’t that fucking scream interest?”

Stan watches as Kenny tenses slightly.

“He lets you get away with everything. You respond to his flirting like a goddamn middle schooler, skirt around it and instead of nailing the point into your head, he plays along.”

“Because I’m like that with everyone.”

"Fuck’s sake, McCormick. You’re so goddamn stupid."

“Cartman’s right, dude, he just doesn’t wanna push you.”

“Maybe he just— doesn’t see it as flirting when I do.”

“Kenny, listen to me. Douchebag wants you. He wants you bad. And if you keep being a coward, he’s gonna move on and find someone who isn’t a street rat with the sexual history of a Las Vegas buffet. You really want that?”

“You’re just saying that because you think it’d be funny if I dated him.”

“Dude, I can’ deal with this shit anymore. We have this exact same talk every two months. Imma save the rest of my carefully picked insults for the next briefing, which will be,” Cartman looks at the date on his phone. “on October 11th. Now, I'll go shit my frustration out again.” 

Then, he gets up to go to the bathroom.

Stan, though, just watches him. He hasn’t really been around for the past years, but he can tell what the problem is with Kenny.

See, the thing is, Kenny’s insecure. And not in the fake, self-deprecating, "haha, I'm such a mess" kind of way people joke about. It’s real, and it’s buried so deep that even he doesn’t recognise it most the time. He has always been.

Kenny doesn’t believe Douchebag could actually like him, because why would he?

Because Kenny’s poor, and people call him a slut just for being affectionate and friendly— Cartman doesn’t count — because adults in his life has always made him feel like he’s not worth sticking around for. His parents certainly didn’t think so.

If he’s been flirting with the New Kid for years, it’s safer that way. If he never treats it as real, then it can’t be taken away from him. Or it won't end up with Kenny left behind.

Stan knows that feeling too well. It’s bad. But the worst part is seeing it in Kenny. He can’t stand the idea of Kenny thinking those things about himself. His smiles in the day must be painful at night.

He doesn’t think it’s his place to say anything about it. Not right now, at least.

His mom had been the one to tell him, a while after he came back from the residential center—Kenny’s parents had been arrested for drug possession and distribution, along with child endangerment. Nearly a decade behind bars. Kenny and Karen, thankfully, still with Kevin.

Stan had wanted to reach out right then. He thought about calling or sending a text. But he held himself back.

First of all, it's been too long since it happened for Stan to write out of nowhere, like that. And then, who was he to just reappear like he had any right?

Kenny had already lived a hard enough life, yet somehow, he still carried it without making as much of a mess as Stan had. He didn’t need Stan’s baggage on top of everything else. And he had told Stan to, indirectly, find him once he got it together.

He still hadn't. He was a mess, who couldn't even kill himself.

So, Stan did what he did best. He stayed away.

It had been two years since they’d really talked, like friends. Months since they’d interacted at all, outside of being forced to partner up in chemistry. That didn’t really count, though.  A few words exchanged over the Bunsen burner, some half-hearted small talk. Nothing like before. Kenny had made a joke about the gadget-- how Mr Slave probably had used it as a anal plug at some point, and Stan had said for sure. Stan didn't count that. 

He wondered if Kenny had started lighting the cigarette he used to put between his lips.

“So,” Kyle begins, once everyone has freshened up after the awkward moment they had due to Kenny’s love-life. “What’s the plan?” he asks as he’s slathering his arms with sunscreen, ignoring Cartman's whispered 'what a fucking metrosexual'

Kenny stretches his arms behind his head. “We should go out. Explore.”

“I mean, as in a lunch plan. Of course, we’re gonna explore.”

“Right. So, we walk, we see, we eat.”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Right, because nothing says smart like wandering around and gobbling whatever’s on sight.”

"I bet whatever we end up eating is a hundred times better than anything back home." Kenny smiles, kicks Kyle's back lightly with his feet. “Come on, dude. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it behind with my common sense.”

Cartman sits up, rubbing his stomach. “Alright. Let’s just leave.”

There are no objections as they all rise, smoothing down their t-shirts and shorts, grabbing their bags— now mostly emptied, with spare clothes tucked away in the closet and toothbrushes in the bathroom.

They step out of the motel and onto the street, their eyes immediately squinting as the bright sunlight hits them, the warmth of the day sinking in especially after the AC-cooled room.

“Dude, Cartman, didn’t we just see an episode on Bizarre Foods about here?”

“Fuck if I remenber. Last time I’ve seen Andrew Zimmern, he was eating freaking stingrays tacos,” Cartman glances at Stan, “Don’t even think about starting another movement now, Stan, we don’t have time for a, I don’t know, Stingray Sluts stunt.”

“Yeah, dude. Those things killed Steve Irwin, you know.”

“He’d have forgiven them, and would want us to do the same." Stan says, "He’s The Crocodile Hunter, after all.”

“You’re right. May he rest in piece…”

"So does that mean you're gonna join my environmental organisation, Stingray Sluts, and save them from Japan's seafood industry?"

"Shut the fuck up, Stan."

The boys walk down the streets, their pace quickening as they spot a sign near a hotel, that reads Short Walk to the Plaza.

The streets narrow as they progress further into the heart of the city, buildings growing taller and packed with character. Shops lining the sidewalks are full of assorted items— from home furniture to handmade jewelry, and even a Russian art gallery. But they barely glance at any of it, too focused on getting to where the restaurants and street food are.

They pass a trading post filled with Native American crafts, and a few shops next to it, a hat shop catches the attention of all four boys. The hats displayed in the window were finely crafted, with a sign reading, Panama Hats, Handwoven, Artisan Hat Bands.  Each one has been a connoisseur of hats in their own right for years, whether it’s Kyle’s trapper, Stan and Cartman's beanies, or Kenny's hood. Naturally, they wander inside, curious to see what the shop has to offer.

The moment they step in, they’re surrounded by rows of meticulously crafted hats, each one more finely detailed than the last.

Cartman’s eyes glint as he examines a thick felt fedora on the shelf, Kyle and Kenny zero in on a particular hat— a sleek, straw Panama hat. Kenny reaches for it, his fingers brushing the soft material, but then his eyes fall on the price tag. The three figures glaring up at him are enough to make his hand freeze midair. His expression falters, and without even trying the hat on, he pulls his hand back like it might bite him.

"Jesus Christ," Kenny mutters under his breath, eyeing the hat like it might explode in his face. "I’m not even gonna risk it. I’ll ruin the hat just by looking at it. Then I'm in debt, forever.”

The others look at the price tag too, their eyes widening in disbelief. Stan nods in agreement, “Let’s get outta here before we start a fire or something.” Because that would happen to them, already did in kindergarden. No need to risk it again.

“Who the hell would even buy a $400 hat?” Kenny whines when they get our, “That’s like... half of a month’s rent.” 

“Cowboys, duh,” Cartman replies.

“I highly doubt real cowboys were out here dropping that kind of cash on a single hat,” Kyle scoffs at Cartman.

"Then where the fuck do you think Lone Ranger, Red Harlow, or John Marston got their hats from?”

Kyle turns to him and slides his sunglasses down his nose, giving Cartman a deadpan look. “None of those guys are real, Cartman. You know that, right?”

“Fuck you mean Lone Ranger isn’t real?”

"He's not, stupid, he's a fictional character."

Cartman narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Right, Kyle… And Billy the Kid’s fake, too.”

“Billy the Kid is real. But Lone Ranger isn’t, dumbass, or the guys from RDR.” Kyle snaps, but Cartman's slowing down, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"We're talking about the dude in Call of Juarez, that Billy the Kid?”

"Yes."

"Jesse James?"

"Real."

"Blondie? Tuco? Angel Eyes?"

"Fiction."

"Randall Bragg from Appaloosa ?"

"..."

The main plaza is alive with the buzz of tourists and locals families alike, surrounded by some of the oldest buildings in the United States - info supplied by Kyle - including the famous Palace of the Governors. The midday sun is relentless, but the covered walkways of the adobe buildings around the historic district make the heat bearable.

Kenny gasps when they pass by a hotel, La Posada, saying this place is haunted, dude, I've just seen it on Unsolved Mysteries. 

The boys glance around, trying to figure out where to eat, dodging street vendors left and right. The scent of roasted chiles wafts through the air, and their stomachs growl in response. That's when they turn a corner and find themselves in front of a restaurant tucked away in one of the hidden courtyards. The scent of roasting chiles and fresh tortillas drifts out from inside, all four pause and eye each other, and going in through the threshold one at a time. Though the entrance is a bit narrow, the space gets considerable wider as they go in further.

The restaurant is packed, warm and lively with people filling the space, sipping their margaritas— or some other cocktail, don’t ask Stan the details, he never had alcohol out of such a dainty glass as those— digging into plates of enchiladas drenched in chile, and laughing over conversation.

After a short wait, they get sat in a table outside by a smiling server. Another greets them at the table, telling them a bit about the menu, and as soon as she mentions the sopapillas and garlic bread, Kenny practically starts vibrating in his seat. After answering some questions about which dips are the spiciest, and what her suggestions were, she leaves the boys on their own to browse the menus.

“The hell…” Cartman mutters as he flips through the pages. "Every single thing here is, like, drenched in chile."

"Yeah, no shit," Kyle elbows Cartman, "It’s New Mexico, dumb-fuck.”

“You guys decided on anything?”

“Yup.”

“Yep.”

“Hello! We’d like to order, please!”

The server, who has just returned to take their orders, can’t help but smile at Kenny’s infectious happy aura as he’s listing his order, enchiladas and tacos. New Kid told me a secret to look like a local, he whispers to Stan.

"Red or green?" she asks.

Kenny leans forward, "I think I'll go Christmas.” which makes the waitress laugh.

“And where did you learn that?”

"Learn what?" He asks back, looking innocent with his wide eyes.

As Kyle and Cartman list their orders, Stan gets distracted, looking around at the decor—vibrant paintings, dried ristras hanging from the walls. He's staring at oil painting of a horse when Kenny nudges him. "Dude, what’re you getting?"

"Uh, a tamale plate, please,” Stan tells the waitress, checking the menu again, “Green chile ones.”

“Dude, will that be enough?”

“Yeah, dude. Cartman ordered two plates just for himself.”

“Just for myself, my ass. We have a freeloader among us, Kyle, I'd like to enjoy my food without playing Red Light-Green Light with Kenny’s klepto hands.”

Stan shrugs, “I don’t have much appetite anyway, dude.”

“Which means you gotta eat more. Excuse me! Can we also get some, um— Stan, you still vegetarian? No? Really? Then why did you get the veggie tamales, anyway— pulled pork sliders, please? Thank you!”

While waiting fot the food, they talk about everything and nothing—TV shows, old childhood memories, what they were doing before Stan, like a harbinger of doom, called upon them to go on the roadtrip, which apparently wasn’t much.

The biggest thing the boys talk about is the Pokemon World Championships. For the record, Stan didn’t ask them anything about it. Last time he had anything to do with Pokemon was the DS game Shelley gifted him in pysch ward, and before that it was the fourth generation, when Chinpokomon got sued by Nintendo and South Park children all had to migrate to Pokemon — considerably more expensive, but at least safe from copyright infringement.

“… and so yesterday was the last day of single eliminations.”

“For TCG. VGC ended the day before.”

“Yeah, some Italian guy won that. Still can’t believe Rizzo got eliminated in the first round, dude.”

“Italians must’ve cursed him or something.”

“I dunno man, I thought I was bugging when I saw the Torkoal…”

“He underspeeds Amoongus in TR, I get that, but still…”

“Scott and DogPoo kept blowing my up my phone about it, but I was packing and shit, so I forgot. We’re waiting for the broadcast uploads.”

“Klaczynski won TCG Masters. I think I'll buy his deck when it comes out.”

“Totally, dude. He's the first three-time TCG champion, ever."

Yeah, Stan’s just out of the whole Pokemon loop. It becomes gibberish to him after listening for a while, just like Kenny’s gameplay lessons back in the car.

Their food arrives soon after, and for a while, everything is quiet as they dig in.

The flavors are insane—the deep smokiness of the red chile, the spicy tang of the green, the warmth of the fresh flour tortillas. Kenny makes an exaggerated moaning noise after biting into his enchiladas, and Kyle immediately threatens to stab him with his fork. Kenny bats his eyelashes at him but his charm finds no recipient in Kyle.

They drink a lot of water and cola, but it’s worth it. It turns out they've made a mistake not reading exactly what is included in a plate, because when Stan's tamales plate comes with beans and rice, he has no idea how he'll even come close to eating it all. There's always Cartman, he thinks.

"You gonna finish those, Stan?"

"Go for it."

Stan slid his tray forward, the half-eaten burger and mostly untouched fries now up for grabs.

Cartman didn’t hesitate, immediately taking a handful of Stan's fries and shoveling them into his mouth. Kyle looked away like the sight of Stan giving up on his food is too much to stomach, before shooting Cartman a disgusted look.

"You're seriously going for Stan's food too, fatass? You just had a Grand freaking Slam this morning."

"The fuck, Jew, you counting my bites now? Ran outta cash to flip through?"

"I don't need to count to see you snorkeling food into your mouth like a fucking anteater."

"Right, keep your race-appropriate nose outta my business, Kehl."

They were twelve years old, crammed into their usual booth at Red Robin, fueling themselves with the best kind of grease and sugar after a long day of screwing around at the mall.

Most of their time had been spent at the video game store, where they managed to get themselves kicked out after badgering employees with too many questions and trying to bribe them into handing over early copies of Super Smash Bros Brawl. At least they left with the next-best thing— the latest Metal Gear Solid.

"You didn't eat shit, dude," Kyle muttered, gaze on the empty spot where Stan's tray just was.

Kyle didn't look at him much these days. Not really. He talked around him, mentioned him, but kept his focus on Cartman or Kenny, only addressing Stan when it’s absolutely necessary. When he did look at him, it's been like he was searching for something, but whatever it is, he never seemed to find it. His voice wasn’t concerned— it was irritated. He said it like a fact, like something annoying he had to acknowledge, and force Stan to do t he same, before moving on.

"Yeah, well..." Stan shrugged, a motion that had become almost automatic, even though he knew it had become a taboo gesture in Kyle’s book by now. He could feel it, the irritation that flared whenever he did it. It was something Kyle had started to notice— Stan’s repeated use of the shrug when he didn’t know what else to say, which was more often than not these days.

"Did you even try to eat?"

"Yeah."

Kenny, who had been sitting quietly across from Stan, froze mid-bite, a stolen French fry hanging precariously from his lips.  

Like Stan, Kenny knew what would come next— Kyle’s jaw tightened, the way his body was coiled like a spring, ready to snap, on the edge of another full-blown meltdown. Hazel eyes flickered toward Stan, the look in them a silent plea for him to say something, anything.

Stan had said everything he could, but nothing seemed to get through to Kyle. He’d tried to explain, so many times, but nothing he said ever seemed to make a difference. What else could he say?

When he muttered, I don't feel like it, it wasn’t an excuse— it was the truth. He didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel like doing anything, not really - and those words were enough to send an angry rush of red across Kyle's cheeks.

Stan had never been good at hiding things from Kyle. He couldn’t lie to him. And for the last two years, he has been too tired to lie. Even his drinking had reached an all-time low. He had started the whole thing just to get through a day with his friends, enjoy the time together, and don't be a bummer around them. But alas, alcohol didn’t help anymore—it didn’t make him normal anymore.

Without it, he couldn't fit in anywhere. With it, all the same. Both led to the same dead end Stan was cornered in.

What else was left for Stan to do? What? Drugs? Weed?

Well, the latter one was out of the question. Just the thought of the damn thing made Stan's stomach churn and roil and twist. 

In times like these, Kenny played the mediator. Like a crash mat, he absorbed the impact, wedging himself between Stan and Kyle when things got heated. But it was starting to wear on him. Stan could see it— the way Kenny hesitated before stepping in when an argument between him and Kyle began to boil over, before one of them said something they couldn’t take back.

Still, Kenny never stopped trying. He did these small, quiet things— waiting a little longer before walking ahead with the others, tossing Stan an extra fry when he caught him zoning out, cracking a joke just stupid enough to break the ice.

He had always been, in a way, the most devoted to their friend group. Or maybe, more than any of them, he just couldn’t afford to lose it.

"Right..." Kenny interjected quickly, "Anyho, guess what I did yesterday? So, get this..."

"You did what?!" exclaim Stan and Kyle, at the same time, both affronted at the words that had just left Kenny's chile-covered mouth.

"What? Like it’s a crime?" Kenny shrugs, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb. "I just sent his team an email about it. Like a business proposal."

"You—" Kyle pinches the bridge of his nose with his clean hand, something he does a lot these days, Stan realises. "You emailed Chris Hansen, offering to give your own nudes as decoy bait?!"

"Yeah, so?" Kenny blinks. "What's the big deal?"

"Dude. They probably reported you," Kyle says, grabbing his soda and taking a long sip. "Your house is gonna get swatted, they're gonna find Kevin's stash and you are gonna end up in foster care."

"Kevin's not a dealer, stupid. His friend is."

"Believe what you want."

"I didn’t even send them my nudes!" Kenny protests, "I just said I could, you know, and help them catch predators and shit! I’m being a humanitarian here! For the right price, you know."

Stan has already finished his tamales and made decent progress on the rice and beans. He’s also taken down one of the pork sliders, while the others are still busy digging into their plates.

Kenny, fully immersed in his food, has abandoned the cutlery altogether, using both hands to shovel it in. When his phone— along with Cartman’s and Kyle’s— pings, he barely looks up. Instead, he nudges Stan with his elbow and says, “Check it for me, please~” lifting his leg up so Stan can reach into the pocket of his worn-out basketball shorts and fish the phone out.

[SPF18+ BO1 TDM TUE 3PM 11/12]

Tolkien

wait

we got a whole tdm set up tmrw 

Craig 凸

holy shit

i forgot abt that

selfish mfs bailed on us

Clyde OWES 9$ 

selfish asf

Butters IOU 44$  

aw jeez

we really needed 12 ppl fellers

Kyle  

we r literally in nm 

what do u want us to do? 

tp back??

Tolkien  

yeah

David R

find a pc cafe or smth

Cartman ✂╰⋃╯

a what

speak american

Craig 凸 

if u cared about the team

u wouldve stayed home

"Oh my god, these fucking losers," Kenny mutters, wiping his hands on a crumpled napkin as he leans in to read the chat. "Alright, gimme it. Should I play it cool just 'cause we kinda borrow Tweek to bot with me?"

"Dude, fuck those guys," Kyle says, glancing at his phone mid-bite of his enchilada, barely pausing before he starts typing with one hand. "Like Craig and Tweek never bailed before. We just never called them out on it 'cause no one wants to hear their excuse."

Kenny  

lol our bad guys

telling stan we gotta go back rn 

so we can play cod

like are u fr

Tweek IOU 10$

YES

Tolkien  

honestly yeah

Clyde OWES 9$ 

yeah actually

stan can be our 12th

problem solved

Kyle

its just tdm

just go 4v4

get ur dicks down 

stupid mfs

Cartman ✂╰⋃╯

play smth else

go out

touch a boob or 2

lord knows u need sum

Craig 凸

t(-_-t)

Cartman ✂╰⋃╯

wasnt tlkng 2 u gaywad

go suck tweeks jittery lego dick

if u can catch it

Craig 凸

t(-_-t)

Tolkien

k 

but wtf do we do now 

we r down 4 ppl

Craig 凸 changed the group name  

[SPF18+ BO1 TDM TUE 3PM 8/12]

Tolkien  

@Newkid

newkid wake up 

Newkid 🜲

?

Tolkien  

find some ppl to play tdm

plz

Clyde OWES 9$ 

yeh

other guys will play if u ask

Newkid 🜲

no

Jimmy IOU 13$ 

jfc

lets just do mw ffa

Scott IOU 7$

alr

that works 2

Clyde OWES 9$

any objections? 

Butters IOU 44$

well

actually

ffa stresses me out a bit u guys

Craig 凸

not hearing a no

its decided 

Craig 凸 changed the group name 

[SPF18+ MW FFA TUE 3PM]

Tweek IOU 10$

??WHATSTHIS?

FFA??????

NO FFA IS WORSE 

ITS JUST GONNA BE ALL SPAWN CAMPING 

Jimmy IOU 13$

oh yeah tweeks gonna have a stroke lmao

Craig 凸

its ok babe

Tolkien

u talk like this tweek

but then

smoke every1 with fucking barret 

Tweek IOU 10$

Like I HAVE a choice????

Craig 凸

u will be fine honey

dw

Clyde OWES 9$

ok craig

cant wait for u 2 cover tweek

so we can get fucked

Craig 凸

t(-_-t)

"Well, Stan. You know what this means."

"What?"

"You said you play the campaigns sometimes.That means you're in for COD Tuesdays from now on. Don’t even start-" Kenny cuts him off right as Stan opens his mouth to argue. "I get a recruitment bonus from Tolkien, so I don't wanna hear it."

"You never had to play with fucking Kevin Stoley, Stan. You don’t get it. The guy can’t go ten seconds without bringing up phasers or laser cannons when we’re just trying to teach him basic shit. Then he starts making pew pew noises with his SMG." Cartman tucks his phone back into his pocket, hands going to pork sliders.

Kyle doesn't say anything. He keeps his gaze on the phone, but his eyes are not moving. Stan can tell he's pretending to be engrossed with something, but he's paying attention. He doesn't wanna disappoint Kyle.

More than that, though, he doesn’t want to disappoint Kenny. Not after the blonde had swooped in and saved him from that awkward mess with the bed situation. Shutting him down now would feel like a betrayal.

“…Okay, I guess.”

Before he even finishes speaking, Kenny lets out a triumphant whoop, only to immediately choke on a bite of his taco.

Stan and Cartman move at the exact same time, clapping him on the back with enough force to jolt the cough right out of him. Kenny sputters, wheezes, then slaps a hand against the table, grinning at Stan through watery eyes. His hazel eyes have that sparkle in them. It makes Stan break out a smile.

Just before the final divorce, whenever Randy yelled a bit too loud, a bit too much, it would make Stan’s ears ring throughout the night and well into next day. It rang, and rang, and banged and crashed between his eardrums and his brain.

After Randy left for good, everything quieted down. Even school felt like an aquarium— distant and muffled, carried sound in a way that disoriented it. 

Unlike the visit to Denver Aquarium for his ninth birthday, it was Stan trapped on the other side of the viewer. He moved through the water like a fish, the world outside distorted by thick glass and the heavy weight of water pressing in on all sides. Voices blurred into an unintelligible buzz, conversations floating past him without ever fully reaching his ears, words slipping away before he could catch them. He could see people, their mouths moving, their expressions shifting, but none of it felt real—just shapes and colors behind the glass, too far away to tell the difference. 

He was a fish, coasting through the day, letting the current pull him where it pleased.

Kenny, though— Kenny was different than anyone else.

A bright orange against the blur. He was the persistent block of color at the edges of Stan’s awareness, the constant tap against the barrier separating him from everything else. There was something unshakable about Kenny, the way he hovered just close enough to remind Stan that he wasn’t completely alone.

And that's exactly what it felt like towards the end of their friendship. Kenny, skipping after Stan, who was the fish whose fins weren't strong enough to fight against the current, who had long surrendered to it pulling him away. 

Stan sat on the curb outside the gas station, his knees pulled up to his chest, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. He had to shoulder-tap a college dropout for double the price of that damn thing. It wasn’t his first of the night. Probably wouldn’t be his last, either. The neon sign above him hummed, buzzing like the static that had filled his head for as long as he could remember. 

Probably should go back home before Mom raises hell.

Footsteps scuffed against the pavement, and Kenny dropped down next to him. He smelled like the cheap soap they used at the Community Center and the grass that clung to his giant parka— he'd grown into it, the sleeves even hung a little low now, but the material had gotten too thin, that he started wearing long fingerless gloves that Mrs Cartman originally knit for Eric - like he was trying to cover up the fact that his house reeked of mildew and liquid bread by rolling around in the dirt. Didn't seem too out of the question, Kenny practically lived on the streets for as long as anyone can remember. Anything was better than that shit-hole of a house, after all.

Neither of them spoke for a while. 

Kenny nudged Stan’s shoulder. “Kyle’s a dumbass, man.”

Stan huffed out something like a laugh, “Yeah.”

“I mean, we’re all dumbasses, but him especially.” Kenny pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, he didn’t light it, just put it between his lips and started nibbling on it. They weren't even thirteen yet. “Still. You gotta admit, you’re not exactly easy to be around lately. And by lately, I mean a little too long by now.

“Yeah. I know.”

Kenny sighed, “Look, dude… I get it. I mean, I don't, at least not all of it. But I get some of it.” He gestured at the beer in Stan’s hand. “You’re not drinking for fun.”

"I'm not."

Kenny watched him for a long moment, then, quieter, “Just ‘cause he's not your friend anymore doesn’t mean I’m not.”

Stan pulled his knees tightly to his chest, buried his head in his draped arms.  

Not your friend anymore. Not your friend anymore. Not your friend anymore. 

It was such a surreal thought. Kyle wasn’t Stan’s friend anymore.

Just a few years ago, the mere idea of it would’ve made him laugh out loud in disbelief. No way. The sun could explode, Jesus himself could descend from the heavens to have a smackdown with Santa Claus, before Kyle and Stan ever stopped being friends.

The thought had been unthinkable—until now. He hasn't felt sadness in this intensity for a long time. I'd rather not feel anything, than endure this for another day.

He lifted his head, and blue eyes met Kenny's gaze.

"I dunno what the fuck’s going on with you, dude. I really don't.” The blonde exhaled. “And, I'll be honest, I don't wanna get it. You have so much, but you don't see it. I just can't get it, you know?”

Stan swallowed hard, something heavy and awful pressing against his ribs. He pursed his lips further, the pink of his lips disappearing .

Kenny nudged him again. “But you gotta want to be better. You can’t keep going like this.” We can't keep going like this.

Stan knew it already. He wanted to say that it wasn’t that simple. That he didn’t want to be like this. That he’d give anything to just be normal again.

He wanted to say he was willing to try, but the moment for trying had already passed, and he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Kenny.

With their bellies full, energy replenished, they walk around without much of a plan, stepping into small shops and stalls.

Kenny tries on a cowboy hat at one store, considerably cheaper than the hat company, striking a dramatic pose before Cartman pulls it down to cover his face, saying he looks stupid as fuck - though they end up getting matching hats. They turn to Stan and Kyle, tipping their brims like they’re about to rob a saloon, and get shot doing it.

“Well?” Cartman asks. “Do we look good or do we look good?”

“Lay down in a casket six feet under, and you might look good." Kyle says, and knocks the hat off Cartman's head.

Kyle spots a shelf of books about New Mexico’s history, but ultimately doesn’t buy anything other than an old travel itinerary.

This time, it's Stan that follows their lead, hands in pockets. Soon enough, they're in the Plaza again, not realizing they've made a complete loop around the district.

The plaza is full, people everywhere, having taken of their sunglasses and hats now that the cruel Sun is no longer hanging at the top. Circles are formed around the numerous buskers performing with every type of instrument Stan knows. At the focus of one of the bigger groups, they spot a mariachi band.

The musicians— dressed in crisp black and silver trajes de charro—play their instruments, looking happy and at ease while doing it. Stan immediately recognizes the vihuelas and guitarron.

Years ago, before their stint as The Llama Brothers, they’d looked into mariachi bands. But the Peruvian pan flutes they found at the time were cheaper, so they went with those instead. That disaster didn’t last long before they inevitably gave mariachi a shot too— without Craig and his hundred-buck investment this time.

Kenny is the first to start moving with the music, unable to resist the infectious energy. Kyle digs a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and tosses it into the open guitar case in front of the band, then takes his camera out.

“We should ask them for a photo,” Kenny suggests, turning to Kyle just as the red-head is lowering his camera, having been in the middle of taking a candid shot of the band.

“And be one of those white-trash assholes? No way, dude.”

“Why not? We had a mariachi band once.”

“For like, a day, Kenny. It wasn’t even a real band.”

“And? Did we or did we not? I love their music, man. At least take one of me and Stan.”

“Dude, why bring me into this?” Stan protests, but as usual, his words fall on deaf ears. Kenny seizes the opportunity when the band finishes their song and drags Stan forward.

To their luck, the man with the guitarron grins at Kenny’s wide, hopeful eyes—practically pleading for a photo. The fact that Kenny is decked out in a cheap cowboy hat tied around his neck probably helps sell the image of a perfect tourist.

Kyle sighs and lifts his camera, snapping a picture of Kenny and Stan standing beside the band. The trumpeter claps a firm hand on Stan’s shoulder, and he can’t help but grin, suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia of Casa Bonita. The countless birthdays spent there. The best place in the world, at least when they were kids. The mariachi band that played there every year, their songs filling the air between cliff divers and bottomless sopapillas. Stan wonders if it’s still the same band playing there. If they still play for wide-eyed kids in the dimly lit restaurant that felt like magic.

His gaze drifts to Kenny, who’s already looking down at the photo Kyle just snapped, nodding in approval. Stan realizes, then, that his hands are empty of memorabilia. He hadn't picked anthing, didn’t even think about it, but Kenny must have. 

They decide - not unanimously, Cartman had voted against it, and it had taken Kenny some sweet-talking to break the tie - to explore some of the historic places in the district, starting with the Loretto Chapel. The boys step into the small, quiet church after paying the fee, only three bucks, so no one has protested further.

The Chapel is beautiful in its simplicity, the pale stone walls and stained glass windows casting faint hues of color across the room. But it’s not the altar or the pews that bear the burden of fame here— it’s the mystery staircase.

"Alright, here it is," Kyle says, leading the way as they approach the back of the chapel. A small group of people stand around the staircase, gazing up at the spiraling steps in awe. 

Stan squints, “Isn’t that just a slide, dude- Oh wait, it has steps.”

The stairs are narrow, steep, and winding in a perfect circle. There’s no visible support beam, no center post, and no nails or screws holding it together, just wooden steps seemingly defying all laws of engineering.

Kenny crosses his arms, neck stretching to take a good look at the stairs,“The Sisters here at the time said it was made by a carpenter who just showed up out of nowhere. Disappeared after he was done. Ithink I saw it on Unsolved Mysteries”

Stan gives him an exasperated look. “Dude, what’s with you and Unsolved Mysteries? First La Posada, now this. Are you, like, a conspiracy theorist now or something?”

Kenny shrugs. “The New Kid loves that show. And that's all I remember from the episode.”

Stan and Kyle exchange a glance at the mention of New Kid.

A feeling like drinking ice cold water after chewing mint gum washes over Stan when Kyle doesn't look startled or disgusted by the prolonged eye contact. It's refreshing, it's soothing, but it burns, in a way that is both good and bad.

“The New Kid?” Kyle asks.

“Yeah,” Kenny says  “We watch it, like, every friday. Hey, don't look at me like that."

"You're so fucking gay." Cartman sighs. then looking back at the structure. “This is just a freaking staircase.”

Kenny looks at the information sheet that he grabbed from a stand nearby, summarising the content in his own way, “Okay, children, listen up. So, the nuns needed a staircase because there wasn’t one in the chapel. And apparently, they couldn’t climb a ladder or something - Hm, I wonder why -  So, they prayed about it, and then a carpenter with a donkey showed up out of nowhere, built the staircase, with exactly 33 steps for each year our Lord, Christ, spent on Earth, and disappeared. Poof.”

“Feels like a scam.” Stan says.

“Because it is.” Kyle chimes in.

“It sounded more intriguing when Robert Stack was talking about it.” Kenny pouts, then looks at them with raised eyebrows. “Who do you think that was?”

Kyle rolls his eyes, “Uh, a carpenter. Duh.”

Cartman leans in, “Shut up, Jew, like you know anything. It’s obviously St. Joseph. God sent him to help out the nuns.”

They stand there for a moment looking at the staircase for the entirety of five more minutes before they get bored and start weaving their way through the dense cluster of tourists.

When they finally push past the heavy doors and step outside, Kenny throws his head back dramatically, sucking in a deep breath.

“Dude, they need to put a visitor limit in there or something. I think I almost suffocated.”

It was a sunny day that the boys had dragged themselves out to Stark’s Pond. He might describe it as ‘dragged’, but really they were just lazing around in the basketball court before getting bored and deciding to walk around in the woods, skipping rocks to crack the ice on the pond, and messing around.

But Kenny, as always, had to turn it into a competition. Determined to outdo everyone, he pushed himself right up to the icy edge of the pond, wound up for the perfect throw— then proceeded to lose his footing and went crashing into the freezing water.

For a second, no one moved. There was a stunned silence before Kenny broke the surface, sputtering and gasping, his hair plastered to his face. “I almost died!” he yelled, grinning like an idiot.

“Oh my god, Kenny!” Stan shouted, rushing over.

Kyle reached him right after Stan, grabbing at the soaked fabric of Kenny’s thin jacket, ripping it off in his urgency. “You bastard!” he snapped. “Take it all off! Right now! You’re gonna get hypothermia!”

Kenny was visibly trembling, teeth chattering so hard he could barely get words out. “Y-you guys… T-take me out to d-dinner first,” he stammered.

Stan turned to Cartman, “Dude, carry him on your back. His feet are gonna freeze.”

“What the fuck? Do I look like a fucking mule?”

“Duh, fatass—”

“You said it, dude, not—”

“Fucking assholes,” Cartman snapped before either Stan or Kyle could finish their sentences.

By the time the three of them had peeled off their own jackets to wrap them around Kenny’s shaking form, he was completely buck-naked, his clothes discarded in a sad, frozen pile. With an exaggerated groan, Cartman crouched down as they loaded Kenny onto his back.

“Alright, let’s go go go,” Kyle urged, his voice tight with worry.

And with that, the pack of panicked, shivering 11-year-olds sprinted towards the nearest house, Cartman grumbling under his breath while Kenny clung to him like a overstuffed backpack.

The boys pause outside a small store, drawn in by a bold, hand-painted sign that reads, Home of the World-Famous Fritos Pie—As Seen on TV!

Kyle squints. “What TV?”

"Let's go in, it says world-famous.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

But Kenny is already pushing open the door, leading them inside the store, a place that’s half gift shop, half old-school convenience store.

The shop is packed a chaotic blend of everything — shelves packed with snacks, souvenirs, Route 66 memorabilia, and rows of t-shirts that scream Santa Fe! in bold, colorful fonts. A whole section of toy cars and gag gifts immediately catches Cartman’s attention, but the others are more focused on the wall of t-shirts near the back. T-shirts with “World-Famous Frito Pie” stamped on the front, near ceramic mugs and keychains with little chili pepper charms. They wander through aisles, picking up the occasional item that catches their eye.

“Dude, this is like every souvenir shop in one place,” Stan says, eyeing a shelf stacked with colorful hats and over-the-top cowboy boots.

He grabs a neon green t-shirt with a cartoon Frito bag on the front, holding it up for Kyle to see. Kyle rolls his eyes but picks up a shirt for Stan, and they start snickering at the sight of the design - a cartoon chile pepper flexing muscles, and Too Hot to Handle in New Mexico written in flames, which Kenny snatches away from his hands.

"Dibs," he announces, tossing it over his shoulder and scurrying away. Stan and Kyle exchange a glance but say nothing. In the end, they settle for regular Santa Fe souvenir T-shirts, truly made for tourists— Stan picks a faded blue long-sleeve, Kyle a dark green one. Both stamped with Santa Fe 1610, New Mexico, simple and fitting.

When they rejoin the others, Kenny is already deep in the process of picking a shirt for Cartman. He stands, holding two different New Mexico T-shirts in his hands, clearly torn between them. He holds one out toward Cartman, trying to gauge how it might look on him. Cartman waits patiently this time, scanning the other racks for something else to catch his interest, but not once reprimanding Kenny.

After a moment of deliberation, they both agree on a navy t-shirt, I'm a Big Deal in New Mexico written on it in bold white letters. Kenny holds it up with a satisfied grin, and Cartman simply nods, content with the choice.

“Finally,” Cartman says, grabbing the shirt, ignoring Kyle muttering under his breath - He's a big deal, alright. "Let's go get the damn Fritos Pies."

They weave through the store toward the Snacks sign at the back and step into a tiny, cafeteria-style counter tucked away behind the shelves. The menu is minimal— clearly, people only come here for one thing.

Each order a serving— a slit-open bag of Fritos drenched in chili, smothered with shredded cheese and onions. It smells amazing, even if it looks like something you’d regret eating on a road trip and had to spend the next day stuck in a car for hours. But still, too good to pass up. To cool off the spice, they grab Slush Puppies in familiar artificial blues and reds. After paying for their shirts and snacks, they step outside, squinting against the golden light of the late afternoon sun, where Kenny immediately flags down a couple— both decked out in khaki and fanny packs, wearing the universal tourist uniform.

“Excuse me, could you take our picture?” Kenny asks with his usual charm, fishing out Kyle's sony cyber-shot and handing it over to the couple.

The woman smiles. “Of course!”

Their little group cluster together under the World-Famous sign, holding Fritos Pie bags up.

“Say cheese!” she calls.

“Say Fritos,” Kenny corrects with a grin.

"Fritos~"

“Thanks,” Kenny smiles even wider, then to the others, “Is this our next album cover or not?”

They wander back toward the plaza and sit one of the benches there, watching buskers and people, munching from the bags, occasional slurp of half-melted Slush Puppies and chewing only sounds between them. The sun is sinking lower now, casting long shadows and turning the adobe walls a soft, golden hue.

Stan takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully before admitting, “This is actually pretty good.” Cartman and Kenny nod absentmindedly, too focused on eating.

"It is, but still,” Kyle says, taking another bite. “what TV?”

Before tossing their empty Fritos bags and slushy cups into the trash can, Kyle goes through his usual loop— Google reviews, TripAdvisor, blogs—combing through pages. Within minutes, he declares, “We should’ve gone to the Visitor Center first.”

Cartman groans. “We’ve literally already walked everywhere, Kehl.”

Now that they've already roamed through most of the town- anything in walking distance, at least - except the major museums, neither Stan, or Cartman, or Kenny, see the point of going to a starting point, But Kyle’s already leading the way. At this point, the others know better than to argue, so they follow him through the plaza,

The cool breeze hits them as soon as they step into the building, and they welcome the feeling, grateful for a break from the heat outside. Racks of pamphlets line the walls, contents ranging everything from Ghost Walks of Old Santa Fe to Hot Air Balloon Rides. Kenny snatches one of each as they pass.

The ladies working behind the counter greet them with smiles. The older of the two behind the counter leans forward and led by Kenny's charm and Kyle's interest for the place, and the boys find themselves in an easygoing chat.

“Y’all been enjoying Santa Fe so far?” she asks.

“Yeah, it’s been awesome,” Stan says, glancing at the others. “We ate a lot.”

The women laugh, and he continues, “Checked out the shops, went to Loretto Chapel- we saw a mariachi band.”

“Are you here for some time, or?” 

“Just passing through, ma'am” Kenny says, “Road trip.”

“Good time for a getaway. Though, if you really wanted to see Santa Fe, you should’ve stayed a little longer, or come back- Indian Market’s later this month.”

Kyle raises an eyebrow. "Indian Market?”

“Indian Market's the arts market, the biggest showcase, by pueblos indígenas.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” Cartman says, “we came at the wrong time?”

“I wouldn’t say wrong, just… early. You’d really get to see the culture then"

“Yeah, but ay, you’re missing Las Fiestas too,” the younger woman adds, sounding almost disappointed for them. “Fiestas de Santa Fe- big celebration, parades, dancing, music, food, e tudo...You’d get a real taste of New Mexico.”

The older woman laughs. "Zozobra, too.” she adds, exchanging a look with her colleague.

“Zozobra?”

“The Burning of Zozobra. It’s this huge marionette efigie, stuffed with everyone's worries, bad energy - Anything you want. You can write it on a paper, or put in something that's caused you worry. Then we burn it down.”

Cartman and Kenny exchange a glance, their attention immediately snapping to the mention of mass-burning. If their ears were anything like a dog's, they'd be standing straight up at this point. "You burn a giant puppet for fun?" Kenny asks.

“To let go of negativity,” she corrects, “Start fresh.”

“That's metal,” Kenny and Cartman blurt out at the same time.

Kyle sighs. “So what I’m hearing is, we should’ve planned this trip a month later.”

Kenny nudges him with his elbow, “Maybe we’ll just have to come back. Right, Stan?"

Stan pauses. Feels his brain stall. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t make it weird.

"I guess so," he says, tearing his gaze away from the slight downturn of Kyle's mouth. "When's the best time to see all that?"

"Hm, late August, early September, for both the Zozobra and Fiestas."

"Next year, then."

Though a voice in his head is yelling what the fuck, Stan can't help but say it. Hell, he's come this far.

Their next stop becomes the New Mexico History Museum, as per Isabella and Emily's - the wonderful ladies of the Visitor Center - suggestion.

Kenny and Cartman, like the hooligans they are, see that entrance is free for 16 and Under, and time their entry perfectly, darting in just ahead of a large tourist group to avoid paying. The security guard at the entrance barely looks up as they pass, too distracted by the incoming crowd. One quick glance at their youthful faces, and the guard waves them off without a word, not even bothering to ask for their IDs.

"Oh, sweet sixteen," Kenny mutters to the others under his breath, giving Cartman a subtle high-five as Stan and Kyle join them inside - they just stood in line behind the tourist group and paid for their tickets, with Kyle muttering cheap bastards under his breath. 

The boys are especially invested in the Outlaws section, Cartman's eyes sparkle at the sight of Billy the Kid's spurs and his letters to the governor at the time, appealing for a pardon. Cartman starts complaining about that, not understanding why someone badass would ever beg for forgiveness from authority.

"Why the hell would someone like Billy the Kid beg for forgiveness? That’s not badass at all."

“If it was you, Cartman, you’d probably be licking Wallace’s boots clean.” Stan says.

Cartman shoots him a look. “I wouldn’t leave any written proof of my desperation. He sounds like a little bitch now."

"Dude, he was a kid who didn't wanna die, who does?"

Stan blanks out for a second, thinking about the question. Is it really something so absurd to want? Doesn't everyone think about it?

The thing is, Stan hasn’t really been around people his age to hang out with, aside from his peer groups back in Denver, mostly there for the same reason. So maybe his specimen pool isn’t exactly the most objective.

The only real outlier was Josh-- first time he met the guy, the tall redhead walked into Stan's previously single room and straight up blurted "I OD'd on accident. Yeah, I'm a loser. So, you wanna die, like for real? That's fucked up."

By the time he snaps back into the conversation, Kyle and Kenny are already huddled over an information pamphlet, their noses buried in the small print. The occasional sound of disbelief or sympathy slips from them.

"He's still not pardoned?" Kenny asks, incredulous, looking up.

"Dude, he’s been dead for how long? It doesn’t even fucking matter," says Kyle, moving onto the next piece in the exhibiton.

"Did Silas Greaves kill him?" Cartman chimes.

Kyle turns to him, lips curling into a scowl. "Silas Greaves isn’t fucking real, fat-ass. I just told you—"

On another side of the museum, in Palace Press, they get to watch an old-fashioned printing press in action, the noises of the working machinery clanking and groaning mixing with the smell of ink in the air. A man in an apron, hands smudged with ink, works the press with ease, rolling out sheets of freshly printed text. Small crowd of visitors, including the boys, watch the operator loading another page, setting the type, and turning the heavy iron lever.

“This is actually kind of cool.”

Cartman folds his arms. “Yeah, bet it was real fun waiting six hours just to read about some guy's stolen crops or something.”

By the time they get out of the museum, the sun has dipper even lower over Santa Fe, the boys decide to explore the streets a little more. The warm air turns chilly, and the atmosphere hums with the sounds of street musicians and the occasional chatter. The adobe buildings now glow under the evening light, casting long shadows across the narrow streets. 

Eventually, hunger catches up with them once more, like how Wile E. Coyote always catches up to the Road Runner - though hunger always manages to grab them in its firm hold and not letting go until they satisfy it.

Their feast from the lunch long digested, Fritos pies already forgotten - the four start scouting out a place to eat.

Settled in the first restaturant they came across, Stan gets with a clam chowder with green chile, of course, still pretty much full from everything they ate during the day.

Same cannot be applied for others, who dig into the food with as much enthusiasm as they did for breakfast, lunch, and the Fritos Pie just before.

They chatter throughout dinner, the topic never staying in one place, from the usual shit-talk to what they'll do in Taos tomorrow, to where will they stay in Albuquerque, and on. Kenny has sent the photo of him and Stan with the Mariachi band, and the group photos they took around, to SPF18+, a stark red stains his cheeks as soon as the New Kid texts him privately, saying he looks good in the photos.

"You can't even see Kenny's face clearly, Newkid's such a asslicker," Cartman teases him, snickering at the texts on Kenny's phone.

Stan's smile however, is the main focus of the group chat. It's honestly, really cringy. Though he laughs at Tweek's minor crash-out when Clyde suggests Stan is an evil doppelgänger of some sorts, and just might eat the others in their sleep.

Taking their time walking back to the motel, weighed down by all the food, manage to drag themselves up the stairs, and throw themselves into the room.

Kenny flops onto the bed immediately, Kyle sits on the floor scrolling through his phone, legs stretched, and Cartman immediately goes to use the bathroom, everyone doing their own thing.

It had been a good day.

He almost forgot why he planned this trip in the first place.

They change to their PJs in record time, must've taken them seconds, which really just consist of another t-shirt and shorts combination, or a wife-beater and a boxer in Kenny's case. The blonde is leaning against the railing of the balcony, a pretzel stick hanging out his lips like he's smoking a cigarette. I'm trying to quit, he had said earlier.

The t-shirts they bought sit in a crumpled pile near the bags, and the faint smell of chili still lingers on their hands even after Kyle made them all wash up to their elbows twice. At some point, Stan remembers to take his meds, and makes a quick escape to the bathroom with his backpack, trying not to look suspicious.

"Hey, Stan." Cartman calls out, and Stan freezes. What do I say? He's going to the bathroom with his travel backpack —what the hell is he supposed to say? I’m on my period? Shut up, Stan.

But Cartman only tosses something to his direction, it smacks Stan’s chest before he instinctively catches it. A small plastic cup. Turning it over in his hands, he reads the label.

Multi-Drug Urine Test Cup

"Dude." 

Kenny, curious, gets up to see what's in Stan's hands, and the second he sees what Stan’s holding, he loses it, cackling as he doubles over and h olds on to Stan's shoulder.

"Piss in that cup, motherfucker. I'm not playing."

Kenny’s still gasping between laughs. "Dude, you're giving the ex-alky with a weed tyrant dad, a drug test."

"Exactly. Says he stopped drinking, and his weed stash is gone. This hippie has to be on something. Once an addict, always an addict." Cartman says, "Like how you were a smoking addict, and now a sex addict, Kinny."

Stan doesn't piss in the cup, just rolls his eyes and throws it back to Cartman. He aims for the head.

"We have a pressing issue to deal with," Kenny announces, walking back into the room and shutting the balcony door behind him, scratching his butt and snapping the pretzel stick in his mouth in half. "Who gets to sit shotgun tomorrow?"

Stan is sprawled on the bed, he’s not part of this particular lottery— he’s the driver, after all. But the rest should next leg of the trip. He looks up from the tetris-game when Kenny calls him to help them with drawing straws, and scoots over to the edge of the bed.

“Let’s do it.” 

They sit in a loose circle on the questionably stained carpet floor. Kenny takes three pretzel sticks, bites them down to different lengths, and hands them to Stan.

"Close your eyes," Stan instructs the others.

He shuffles the sticks in his palm, aligns, and keeps them clenched in his fist so they all look the same height, then holds them out. "Alright, pick."

Cartman picks his quickly, claiming he is using 90% of his brain to manifest the longest one, while Kyle hesitates between the two before grabbing his. Kenny takes the last one with a casual shrug.

They all extend their hands, open their eyes and compare the pritzel lengths.

Cartman is the first to groan. “Middle. Lame.”

Kyle holds his up, glaring at the tiny nub of a pretzel stick. “Of course I get the shortest one.”

Kenny grins, holding up his ridiculously long piece. “Looks like I’m shotgun again.”

Kyle scowls. “That’s no fair, you already sat shotgun!”

“Well, that was before we made it official,” Kenny says, stretching out his legs flat on the floor/

“It’s not for long anyway,” Stan reminds them, “He’ll ride shotgun until, what, Burque?”

The final car arrangement is agreed on without further objections: Kenny rides shotgun starting tomorrow, from Santa Fe to Taos to Albuquerque. Then Cartman takes over from Albuquerque to Roswell to Tucson. Finally, Kyle gets the front seat to himself all the way back home. 

The bed arrangement, on the other hand...

Sharing a bed has never been a problem for Stan and Kenny. They’ve done it a thousand times at countless sleepovers. Stan knows Kenny’s territorial sleeping habits— how his body instinctively adjusts to the size of whatever he’s lying on, stretching out to occupy as much space as possible, like a stubborn patch of blonde mold creeping across bread. Their neighbours, however, are far less peaceful.

The banters start in the small bathroom, packed as all four of them brush their teeth. Kenny sits on the closed toilet seat, lazily scrubbing his teeth, while Stan leans against the cold tiles. Both watch as Cartman and Kyle battle a war of elbows for dominance over the sink, shoving and grumbling through mouths full of toothpaste.

“Motherfu- move. You’re hogging the faucet.”

Kyle shoots him a glare through the mirror, his toothbrush still in his mouth. “Mrgh fffmmh!”

“What?” Cartman spits, toothpaste foam launching from his mouth make Kyle reel back, “Jesus, Kyle, don’t talk with crap in your mouth. It’s disgusting.”

The red-head grumbles incoherently and shoves Cartman back enough to take over the sink, exaggeratedly rinses his mouth before snapping, “I said, you move, fat-ass. You take up half the damn sink.”

“I deserve at least half the sink, asshole” Cartman fires back, “I’m the biggest one here, out of you twinks.”

“Yeah?” Kyle shoulders him aside again, “Then your ass should be brushing its teeth in the hallway. Or better, the parking lot."

Kenny cackles from his spot, making Stan stand upright, just in case Kenny chokes again,“He’s got a point, dude.”

“Shut up, guttersnipe. You brush your teeth, like, twice a week, what do you know?”

Kenny holds up his hand, and says, “Three times,” through the foam. When he finishes brushing, he doesn’t bother waiting for Kyle and Cartman to make room—just shoves his head in from the side, spits into the sink with cowboy-like precision, and ducks out of the bathroom.

“Dude!” Kyle gags, wiping furiously at his arm, and Cartman yelps. They both start shouting when Stan follows Kenny's lead, takes advantage of their weakness and spits into the sink. A few stray drops land on Kyle and Cartman, who both recoil in disgust. “You two are fuucking disgusting pieces of shit, ” Cartman yells after Stan, as he slips out after Kenny.

Behind them, the sounds of an altercation follow. A second later, Kyle is forcibly ejected from the bathroom by a loud, pissed-off Cartman. “You’re taking too long!” Cartman barks. “I’m gonna piss, Jew! Unless you want a golden shower, get the fuck out!”

Kyle stumbles to a stop, fuming, then plants himself in front of the bed, hands on his hips, as if trying to configure how this sleeping arrangement will go in his head. The stance is uncannily familiar.

Stan stares. The spirit of Sheila Broflovski has entered the room with unsettling accuracy.

Kyle would definitely not appreciate that comparison. (Yeah, I wouldn't.) (Who said that?)

Once Carmtan's back in the room, he and Kyle eventually settle on a reluctant truce. They agree to sleep with their heads in opposite directions. Kyle still looks borderline hysterical about having to face Cartman's feet, but decides it's better to face than his face.

Cartman grabs one of the longer decorative pillows and plops it in the middle of the bed, establishing borders, ”This is the DMZ. You cross it, you die, Jew.”

Kyle glares at him. "Yeah? Well, if this is the DMZ, then I’m North Korea, and the second your fuck ass feet touches me, I’m launching the nukes."

Stan just gets under the thin bedspread. Beside him, Kenny lies down above the covers, and pulls out his phone again, but Cartman is still watching them with narrowed eyes. He points at Stan. “And you—don’t fall for Kenny’s beggar harlot wiles to seduce you. I have a tazer and a can of pepper spray.”

Stan drops his head back against the pillow. “Dude.”

Kenny, entirely unbothered, tosses his phone next to his pillow, stretches his legs and arms over Stan, raising his head to smirk at Cartman, “C’mon, man, just let me spoon a little.”

Kyle grabs a pillow and chucks it at him.

One day you had your last sleepover at a friend's house and didn't realise it.

First thing Stan does when he wakes up, Kenny's arms and legs slathered all over the bed and Stan like a octopus mistakenly put alive on a sushi platter - is to text the family groupchat.

Well, technically he takes Kenny's arm off his mouth, then reaches for his phone on the bedside table between theirs and Kyle's side.

He looks at the time - 9:45 am.

[KERN'S KENNEL]

Stan

morning everyone

just woke up

Shelley

wow

ur an early bird today

Stan

lol

its the road effect

Shelley

[Photo]

at work rn

Mom

Good morning huns

I hope it wasn't too hot in the night, Stan

Stan

it was ok

theres ac here

Shelley

fancy

Uncle Jimbo

That's my girl, Shell! Best PCT in Colorado

Don't forget to eat, Stan

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day

Ned

get your protein

Uncle Jimbo

Get your protein!!

Stan

i will 

dont worry

Mom

[Photo]

Bear is enjoying the sun, but not the heat!

Shelley

my baby

i miss him

tell him i miss him

Mom

He misses you too Shelley

Counting the days until August 17th!

Shelley

only a week left

thnk god

im so done with med surg

Mom

[Photo]

The ladies are inside 

Chilling with their granny

Stan

turn ac on mom

its too hot

Mom

I will, baby

Don't you worry

Taos today, right?

Stan

yep

we r going out to eat rn

bye everyone

Mom

Eat well, baby!

Shelley

ttyl

Uncle Jimbo

Oh?

Is this some sort of secret code?

Shelley

talk to you later

Uncle Jimbo

Well, okay then

But you have to tell me later!

After the world's quickest showers— ten minutes each, strictly timed by Kyle’s stopwatch—they sprawl out across the motel room in varying states of laziness.

Kenny’s already dressed in his new Too Hot to Handle shirt, looking positively ridicilous with  sitting on the unmade bed and munching on the last of his pretzel sticks as Cartman groggily searches through his bag for clean socks. Kyle paces the room, cracking his back and knuckles, his red curls sticking up in every possible direction like he lost a fight with Isaac Newton and his law of gravity -yes, it's that severe- while Stan lazily pulls on his shorts.

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Kyle says, “Before they stop serving breakfast. It’s almost ten thirty”

“New Kid texted me a breakfast and lunch place down the street.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Sounds good.”

They shuffle out of the motel room, Stan pausing at the front desk to check them out and return the room key - avoiding eye contact with Roy, or more so his reflective forehead - before joining the others in the parking lot. 

The restaurant is a short drive from the motel, thankfully, and not too crowded, just locals and a few tourists milling about. Place's got a charming feel to it, with faded blue floors and wooden booths, and they settle on one of the ones near the back.

Kyle orders huevos rancheros, while Kenny and Cartman opt for breakfast burritos. Stan, not wanting anything too heavy after all that food yersterday, settles on the lighest thing he can find on the menu, which are the blueberry pancakes.

Breakfast passes in relative peace. Kyle and Kenny take cautious sips of their coffee, after following the waitress’s suggestion of adding honey and cinnamon. Kyle actually slides his cup over to Stan, and tells him to try it and—holy shit—it’s really really good. He orders a cup for himself, and repays Kyle by pushing a few berries from his plate onto Kyle’s. Kyle accepts them without protest, hint of a smile on his lips - what the - before he hides it behind his cup.

Kenny slides into the shotgun seat with a menacing cackle, earning his neck a slap from Kyle and Cartman each.

“Taos, here we come,” Kenny says, propping his feet on the dash. “Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

“Hopefully, none. We don’t need to get arrested out-of-state. Save it for Colorado.” Kyle says, "And get your feet off the dash, stupid."

"Please, dude," Stan says, starting the car, "Before I throw up."

"Eat shit and die, Stan."

Having learned their lesson from previous stops, the group heads straight for the visitor center. It’s a good thing they do, because for Taos Pueblo, apparently there are fees to be paid-- $5 per student, $6 per camera.

Stan pays for both his and Kenny’s entrance fees, telling him don't worry about it when Kenny pokes him in the ribs in protest, while Kyle is the only one to pay for his camera.

“Of course you actually paid that... Just take secret pics, stupid. What're they gonna do? How are they gonna know?”

“Oh yeah, let me just get banned from Taos Pueblo, if not the whole state, forever. Great idea, Cartman.”

“You gonna charge us for the photos?” Kenny asks.

“Eh, just for prints.”

"Friend discount?"

"It’s not personal, Sonny. It’s strictly business."

"Fucking Jew."

Wandering through Taos, they drift in and out of shops, using the cool, shaded interiors as brief escapes from the relentless heat and sun. Their caps and sunglasses— Kyle’s layer of sunscreen—  do little to combat the oppressive August sun beating down on them. So, they take refuge wherever they can, which are the numerous trading posts, gift shops and cafes.

The first shop they end up in is a candle shop, and Kyle ends up picking a bundle of chili-shaped candles, deep red and strung together like ristras. The shopkeeper explains how to burn them— clip one off at a time and place it in a candle holder. She insists he pick a matching one out, guiding him to a selection of handcrafted ceramics. Kyle hesitates before grabbing one, then mutters, “I'll get this too, for my mom.” The tips of his ears go pink.

Stan catches the way Cartman’s lips start to curl, the telltale sign of an incoming jab. Before he can get a word out, Stan snatches the nearest candle off the shelf—a chunky cube with layers of differently colored wax. The label reads Desert Sunset.

“For my mom, too.” Stan announces, shooting Cartman a look. 

Kyle glances over at him, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

Under the warm candlelight, his eyes look too green. Stan holds his gaze for a second too long before something uneasy stirs in his stomach, and he looks away.

Didn't people's eyes get darker as they grew up? Stan's sure his own eyes have taken on a deeper shade of blue. They were never the lightest, but he remembers his mom squeezing his cheeks when he was little, always calling him her "baby blue boy."

Maybe someone needs to remind Kyle’s genes of that, so they can tune down the green.

Hm. It's a thought that doesn't make him smile.

Meanwhile, Kenny claps Cartman on the back, nearly knocking the air out of him. “C’mon, dude, just get one for your mom too. You know Liane would love one of these.” he says, picking a candle that's similar to Stan's, a green-themed one.

After some more shops - including Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, which almost call out to the four Coloradans - the boys stop for some coffee at a small cafe near the plaza.

New Kid’s omnipresent influence guides them through Kenny, and has led them to this spot. They don’t go for anything familiar-- Stan and Cartman decide to share a Mexican Mocha, not knowing what it is. Cartman’s not exactly a coffee enthusiast, and Stan’s already had his caffeine fix for the day—coffee and his meds don’t exactly mix well, leaves his hands all jittery and sends his heart racing.

Kenny, on the other hand, is all in. He orders a picante mocha, and doesn’t stop talking about how good it is the entire way to the plaza. 

Kyle shakes his head when Stan offers him a sip from his and Cartman’s cup, eyeing it warily. “I’ll just get something later,” he says.

“Cartman didn’t drink yet, dude. Don’t worry,” Stan says with a grin. Kyle hesitates for a second longer, before carefully taking the cup from Stan’s hand. He takes a tentative sip, his expression unreadable at first, but then something softens in his eyes. He ends up ordering a small one for himself right after.

Stan smiles at the small victory.

They park just near Taos Pueblo, and meet their guide, joined by some other small visitor groups, some foreign tourists, though almost everyone else are other Americans. After a lively thirty-minute introduction—covering everything from the ancient adobe building techniques to the people who still call the village home—the guide lets them loose to explore.

They wander through the sunbaked paths, energized by the caffeine and sugar buzz, and find themselves standing before a church - San Geronimo Church according to Google Maps, and the sign right next to the door.

Inside, Stan stares at the vibrant altar, his eyes tracing the intricate figures and wall paintings—most depicting the Virgin Mary rather than Jesus, though he spots one to the side. He leans to the side, where Kyle's in his cameraman form.

“Send me the photo later,” he says, his voice casual, almost offhand. “My mom would love to see it.” He just knows his mom would love this, the way the soft blue accents surround the Holy figures against the stark white of the interior walls, like it's wrapping them in endless clear blue sky.

Kyle snaps a quick shot, raising an eyebrow at the rare sentimentality, probably equally as surprised as Stan is. “Yeah, sure, dude.” he says, "I'll transfer these to my computer, or I can lend you the memory card when we get back."

They continue exploring, and they walk a lot.

By the time they pile back into the car, Kyle is convinced the sunscreen on his arms and legs has boiled his epidermis, and Kenny is sure he’s lost at least a pint of brain fluid to the heat.

It feels like they’ve been wandering for far longer than three hours.

Stan flips through the pamphlets they picked up at the Visitor Center, skippping the places they’ve already seen, while Kenny fiddles with the GPS, trying to map out their next stop. The unanimous decision they come up with is to go though the Enchanted Circle Drive, a scenic loop through the mountains that will eventually lead them back to Taos. The promise of winding roads and panoramic views seems like the perfect way to finish off Santa Fe and Taos, before they floor it to Albuquerque.

Best of all, they don’t even have to leave the car, now a sanctuary, which seems impossible in the near future. Plus, by the looks of it, an EF5 tornado could pass by them and still wouldn’t be able to pry Cartman and Kenny away from the AC.

Josh was blocking the AC. Again.

There was always going to be some pushing and shoving and name-calling between a dozen mentally unstable, bored pre-teens who’d all tried, or had every intention, to off themselves, stuck in a common room together for Afternoon Time.

The frustration of failing to die has affected them in various ways - some were disappointed, some embarrassed, some numb, some angry. The nurses, bless them, tried to entertain them, but there’s only so much you can do when you’re an adult, powerless against the boredom of kids trapped in a place where even game consoles were off-limits, in case the wires got snuck into a room to be turned into a hangman's knot.

And then there was Josh.

His argument for hoarding the AC? Redheads overheat more.

Which, of course, made no sense to anyone, except the taller guy in the group who had wedged himself right in front of the AC unit, blocking the cool breeze from everyone else, considerably shorter than him. Seriously, what kind of drugs has this guy been doing to shoot up like a giraffe?

“Fucking leave, you selfish motherfucking junkie piece of —”

“Language, Veronica, sweetheart,” Mrs. Sharpe tutted from across the room, glancing over at the scene.

Ronnie let out a dramatic sigh, pulling her hands off Josh’s gangly frame and shot Josh a look so nasty that made Stan think the bipolar girl entered a manic episode. Nevertheless, she didn't start going all out on Josh, or lash out on Mrs Sharpe.

I nstead, she marched back to her seat, next to Stan, where they’d been attempting to play Battlestar Galactica - they had spent a good twenty minutes searching for the missing enemy ships, only to be informed that they were taken by staff for ensuring safety, awesome - with the others before the heat became unbearable.

Stan, on the other hand, didn’t mind the heat so much. He’d gotten used to being cold all the time—probably the aftermath of years of alcohol abuse. He was thin, malnourished, having an appetite near nonexistence for the last couple years, and no matter how warm the room got, the chill never quite left under his skin.

“But Mrs. Sharpe,” Ava piped up, not letting it go. She tugged at Josh’s t-shirt from behind, “Don’t we have to share? Please tell this giant nerd—”

“Mrs. Sharpe, please check my temperature. I think I’m overheating. Like, actually.”

Mrs. Sharpe entertained him by checking his temperature, back of her hand on Josh's forehead, then gently steered the boy away from the AC and sat him back down at the table, leaving after a quick pat on his shaggy hair. Josh, unfortunately, immediately turned his attention to Ronnie, grinning like a jackass.

"Cool off, Pepperonnie?" he teased, drumming his fingers on the table.

Ronnie’s eye twitched. "Call me that one more time, and I swear to God, Josh—"

"She swears to God!" Josh gasped, clutching his chest. "This must be the religious episode. What’s next, what's next?"

"Shut up."

Josh smirked. "I'm joshin'. I wouldn't make fun of you like that, we’re OD-buddies."

"We are not OD-buddies, you;re a freak-"

"Hey, hey, language," Mrs. Sharpe called from across the room, nodding knowingly at Ronnie.

Ronnie clenched her fists but sat back with a furious huff. "You're lucky I’m on mood stabilizers, bitch boy."

Josh's bushy eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at Stan, "This is her on stabilizers? Jesus fuck."

Now that the AC was unobstructed, the rest of the group slowly drifted back to the table, soaking in the cool air before returning to their spots. Ava plopped down next to Stan, still side-eyeing Josh, and Max and Eli took their place next to Ronnie and Josh, respectively. Max turns to Stan, "You didn't look at our cards, right?"

"Why, are you the cylon?

"Yeah, Max, what's that attitude for?"

"I'm freaking Starbuck!"

Stan sighed, "I don't really give a fuck. So, no."

"Alright, listen up if you're mentally unstable," Eli said, and all eyes locked on him "We’re running low on food, morale is in the gutter, so we gotta put our heads together, or this ship is going down."

Ava, leaning her elbows on the table, let out a long sigh. "So, just like us here, basically."

"Don't you have an ED? Can you even get hungry?"

Josh, ignoring all of them, studied his cards with the exaggerated intensity of a man about to change the course of history. "Alright, alright, hold up. I have an Order to repair some damage, so if—"

"Are you the cylon?" Eli cut in, squinting at him.

Josh gasped, "How dare you?!" he near-yelled, slapping a hand to his chest.

"So, are you?"

"You accuse me in every single co-op game we play, Eli, that's not what co-op stands for," Josh waved a card in Eli's face. "Maybe I just wanna actually help the fleet for once!"

"And you say that every time, and then you always turn out to be the fucking Cylon," Ava pointed out.

"Maybe I like chaos, Ava. Maybe it feeds me. Maybe I was born from it."

"Let's just send him to the Brig."

"Hey!" 

Josh's tone must've gone too up, because a harsh 'Hush!' came from the corner of the common room. Paige and Adrian were in their usual reading corner accompanied by Miss Maria, reading Anne of Windy Poplars vs Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days, respectively.

They were allowed to bring their paperbacks in the common room that week, since Peter had to skip Afternoon Time. Peter had been on a downward spiral the last two weeks.

The most recent incident was his fight with Eli, over a game of Uno, of all things. Eli had simply pointed out that Peter forgot to call out Uno, and the next thing anyone knew, Eli was gagging on a mouthful of cards, stuffed in like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey. It took two nurses and Josh-who, despite being an insufferable little shit, was strangely good at de-escalating fights, probably thanks to his long limbs- to pull Peter off. None of the nurses told them anything at first, but there was a betting pool set up immediately in their peer group and some others in the older divisions, about wheteher he managed to die or not.

Though Pete showed up a week later to breakfast. Completely fine, just needed some alone time, he had said, and shot Eli a dirty side-eye.

"Alright. Crisis: Bomb threat. Oh shit."

"Skill checks, quick!"

"Mr President, please give me the Executive Order."

"No shot, Josh."

"We're low on everything, man!"

"No."

"That's abuse of power, you capitalist pig. Pfft. President, my ass."

And then the final crisis came, and their ship officially fell apart. Somehow, they had made it to the edge of Kobol, just one jump away. But fuel sat at two. Josh, as the Admiral, flipped through the destinations. His finger hovered over one. Cost of two.

“That kills us,” Ava said, face squished between her stressed hands, “Pick the other one.”

Josh looked up. And smiled. “Yeah… I don't think I wanna do that.”

He placed his loyalty cards face-up. Cylon. The table gasped in union, some in betrayal, some in disappointment, some yelling 'called it!". 

"So you were the fucking cylon, you fucking soulless fucking ginger-"

Josh sat back, stretching, letting the betrayal settle in. “I’ve been waiting for my big moment, yeah I know, I'm pretty great.”

“Then who the hell is the other one?” Ava asked.

A grin spread slowly across Ronnie’s face as she leant back, flipping her own cards over. Cylon. Josh hollered in joy across her, leaning forward to high-five Ronnie, "My OD-buddy, this one! Are we the dream team, or what?"

Ava's forehead hit the tabletop with a thud.

Max threw up his hands and smacked them down on the table. "That’s it. We’re all dead. Good fucking job, team."

"Well. At least we managed to do it in-game." Stan said, without thinking.

Silence.

Then, booming laughter.

Ronnie actually had to bury her face in her arms, shoulders shaking. Josh nearly fell backward in his chair, held on to Ava, wheezing and doubling over together.

Even when Paige and Adrian started to yell at them for being too loud, even when Mrs. Sharpe and Miss Maria hurried over to intervene, even when they were told to breathe and settle down, none of them could stop laughing.

The scenic drive proves to be a good decision. having everything a roadtrip must have. Roads, first of all. Of course, in true Broship fashion, as much as their roadtrip goes smoothly, not everything goes according to plan.

They see the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, it’s a normal bridge with a beautiful scenery, Rio Grande Gorge is terrifying, yet alluring. A geological femme fatale, or whatever Randy would say to describe it. If he was still the decent geologist father he used be, instead of a habitually high weed farmer gone.

Stan pulls the car aside and the boys  check it out from there. It’s high, very high. It’s so high Kyle suddenly feels sick — so much for Human Kite, quips Kenny — slams his camera to Stan’s chest and throws up to the side of the road. Cartman, who was disappointed upon seeing it’s illegal to throw stuff down the bridge, finds joy again in bile and undigested food let out from Kyle’s digestive system. Tries to take a few photos, but Stan just grabs the phone out of the shorter boy's hands and holds it over his head as Kyle empties his guts all over the poor weed, with Kenny patting his back empathetically. 

Stan drives them through the Enchanted Circle, stopping periodically to walk around, see the sights and take photographs.

There are elks, and trouts, but nothing like they haven't already seen in Colorado already, so after some 'cool's, 'sweet's and 'neat's, they find themselves back in the car. It’s a while after the last campground they’ve come across, that a high pitched, whining sound starts coming out of the shotgun.

“I gotta piss,” Kenny moans, "I can't wait. Stan, I really can't, dude. It's so bad, right now-"

"Oh my God, dude, shut the fuck up."

Stan pulls the car over onto the side of the narrow road, gravel crunching under the tires as they ease to a stop. Kenny’s already half out the door before Stan even shifts into park.

“Dude, seriously? You couldn’t have peed at the gas station?” Kyle groans from the backseat.

“Nature calls, man,” Kenny shouts, darting towards the brush, undoing his shorts as he goes.

“Don’t step in a snake hole!” Cartman calls after him, leaning against the door frame. “Or do. Maybe you’ll get superpowers.”

“Super bacterial diarrhea, maybe,” Kyle quips.

The rest of the boys step out into the cool mountain air.

It’s beautiful, only the clicking of cicadas and rhythmic sound of Kenny’s piss in the distance— until Cartman’s clears his throat and points to a PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO TRESPASSING sign nailed to a wooden post just two steps away of them, right under their noses.

“Uh… guys?” Cartman’s voice shifts up. “What the fuck is that?”

Before anyone can respond, a sharp click cuts through the stillness of the trees, nowhere near where Kenny is currently pissing. It could be a twig snapping, a wild animal shifting in the underbrush.

Or a gun cocking. 

The boys freeze.

Kenny mid-stream somewhere in the bushes.

In the United States, the third possibility feels a hell of a lot more likely.

“Was... was that a gun?” Stan asks, glancing at Kyle whose face mirrors that of his.

“Wir sind Touristen! ” Cartman suddenly screams into the trees, his hands flying up and backing off.

At the same time, Kenny yells too, hopping frantically while tugging his shorts upward, “Watashitachi wa kan--" is the only part Stan gets, the rest get stuck on border control of the language barrier, and thus lost to his ears.

Stan and Kyle exchange horrified looks, both taking a cautious step backward toward the car. Cartman falls into step with them, hands still in the air, "Schießt nicht! Bitte!"

Stan cringes, as Kenny's power walking towards them, still babbling in Japanese. He grabs the back of Kenny’s shirt to yank him toward the car. "Dude, shut up. Let’s go."

The four of them bolt back to the car at full speed, tripping over themselves in their panic. Stan’s already scrambling into the driver’s seat, slams the door shut and starts the car. His hands grip the steering wheel, “Why the fuck would you yell in German and Japanese, in New fucking Mexico?!”

“What the fuck are you two, the fucking Axis Powers ?!" Kyle shouts, kicking the back of Kenny's seat.

“I don't fucking know!” Kenny defends himself, breathless as he pulls the door shut behind him.

Cartman’s face is red, “At least we did something! What about you? You say you know Spanish but you just stood there like a fucking erect micropenis!”

"Because you two were yelling over me with your fucking World War II reenactment! What the hell was I supposed to do?"

Cartman huffs, settling back into his seat “No, Kyle. it’s because the Jew in you came out. And it did what it does best: betray.”

Kyle lunges for him, only for Stan to slam on the gas, sending them peeling out onto the road with gravel spitting up behind them.

“Where did you even learn Japanese, dude? Weren't you in Spanish?” Stan asks Kenny.

“Asian girls, man. I dropped spanish when I discovered anime.” The blonde puts his palm against his chest, "Oof, my heart, I thought I was gonna get shot with my piss still coming out of my dick, dude. Not the type of body fluid I'd prefer..." He snickers at Stan's lips curling in disgust, "I'm not dying until I see Tokyo Ravens on screen. No fucking way."

It's a bit later on the scenic drive that embarrassment and self-reflection comes in, that they may have overreacted a little.

To their defense, the long scenic drive was starting to get mixed with the exhaustion of the long day.

Kenny surely recovers quick, soon he's shoving his phone into Stan's face, showing him his anime girls, “— and this is Natsume — she’s cute, right? Kinda like Wendy if you think about it, not that I’m saying she’s my type, do you still like her by the way? Anyways — so, basically she’s the heir of—"

Stan follows the twisting Taos Canyon road back to Taos city, and from there on, road to Albuquerque.

The state road stretches endlessly ahead, the sky burning orange as the sun dips lower.

The windows are cracked open to let in the evening breeze, ruffling Kyle’s curls and making Cartman complain every few minutes about the goddamn wind tunnel, and threaten Kyle that if one of his cursed red strands gets in his mouth, he will actually make Stan pull aside and impale him on a cactus nearby.

Undisturbed by the threats war crimes being thrown in the back, Kenny's finger finally land on a song after scrolling endlessly on Cartman’s phone, came out just last month, it's pretty good, but everywhere. 

“Lately, I’ve been, I’ve been losing sleep~”

Kenny' voice is passionate as always, the kind of singing that isn’t perfect but makes up for it in sheer feeling. Cartman, who had mocked him earlier for being brainwashed by retail work to like the song, is now singing along just as loudly. Kyle joins in a beat later. Must be a popular song, or catchy, or just enough trash to be liked. Stan glances at the phone— Counting Stars.

"Old but I'm not that old/ Young but I'm not that bold~"

Since he turned ten, music has been, first of all, shit. Then, static.

White noise that everyone else seemed to find beautiful, searched for on Youtube to study to, or even to sleep. At some point, he stopped trying to understand.

Stan sighs. The songs his friends try to sing, out of tune, always sound like a string of words typed by a drunk lab-chimpanzee with the signals of a smashed radio in the background.

“Everything that kills me makes me feel alive~” Kenny sings along. It’s a endearing to watch, Kenny belting out the lyrics like he relates to it wholly and literally--

The static cracks.

Something splits open in Stan’s brain, or comes back together, a frayed wire reconnecting, an old, dust-covered switch flipping back on.

It’s brief, just a flicker—like a station tuning in before dissolving back into white noise. But then it happens again. And again.

Then, as if on cue, the buzzing noise fades. It’s not sharp, not sudden, but it clears out eventually. Like whatever was clogging his ears disappeared.

For the first time in seven years, Stan hears music.

The notes fall into place one after another, fills his ears, and the glass of his aquarium, separating him from everyone else, is shattered. His heart skips a beat, his eyes wide with disbelief as the song crescendos into a full sound.

It slams into him like a punch to the chest. He grips the wheel tighter, vision going back and forth between the road and the speaker.

No. No, this isn’t real.

He should pull over. Should—

What the fuck?

A noise breaks out of him before he can comprehend what it is. It bubbles up from deep within, so foreign, so startling, impossible to stop. A real, genuine, gut-deep laugh that shakes his whole body.

The car goes silent. Well, except for the music still going.

Kenny trails off on the last note, voice tapering into silence like he’s swallowed the rest of the lyrics. Cartman and Kyle lean forward to stare at Stan, who keeps laughing.

The absurdity makes him laugh more, and laugh, and laugh. He doesn’t even know if it’s joy, happiness, whatever it is… It keeps rushing from his lungs, from deep in his gut, and out of his mouth.

The stunned silence of his passengers lingers for a few more beats. Stan tries to smooth his expression, reel the laugh back in, but he just can’t.

Kenny is the first to break the silence.

“Did I do something?” he blurts out, twisting in his seat to look at Kyle and Cartman like he just witnessed a glitch in the matrix.

Cartman, staring with just as much bewilderment, snaps, "What’s so fucking funny about Counting Stars?"

"Dude, you good?” Kyle asks, frowning.

“Is it the song? What’s so funny about it? I mean, it’s a bit corny I guess-"

Cartman crosses his arms. "It’s not even a funny song, dude. What’s wrong with you?"

Silence, then--

Another laughter escapes Stan.

Cartman exhales dramatically and gestures toward the side of the road. "Alright, Stan. Pull aside. You're pissing on the fucking sticks."

They actually make Stan pull aside for a while, Kenny and Kyle immediately swarm over him, watching him catch his breath on the roadside.

Kyle is kneeling next to him, holding a water bottle, looking skittish like Stan is a house cat that got carsick. His hand keeps hovering on Stan's back, not touching him, but still there.

“Alright, dude,” Kenny says, looking at Stan with a nervous smile, “You’re welcome for the laugh. Now,” he puts his hands on the his shoulders, “Get it together, now.  You’re scaring us.” 

“Kyle, hold him down and make him finish that bottle. Kenny…” Cartman appears from the other side of the car with the drug urine test kit, “… jerk him off and make him pee. I’m sacrificing my hand.”

Kyle glares at Cartman, but still hands Stan the water, "He's not on anything, dipfuck."

"Right... And what just happened was completely was totally normal and in character." Cartman snaps back, rolling his sleeves and getting ready to subject Stan to his tests. "I won’t go easy on you Stan."

Yes, he drinks the whole bottle.

No, Kyle doesn't have to force him.

Yes, he pisses on Cartman’s stupid sticks.

No, Kenny doesn't have to jerk him off.

Yes, the results are clean.

No, Cartman is still not convinced.

With the fat boy grumbling about purchasing a breath analyzer the next time they stop in a supermarket, they finally pile back into the car, and Stan moves fast—grabbing the phone connected to the aux before Kenny can even close the door.

Kenny makes a noise of protest, but Stan ignores him, still grinning, almost giddy at this point. He scrolls through the massive, chaotic mess that is Kenny’s music library, looking for the album he knows Kenny has downloaded.

His thumb hovers over the familiar cover art, before gently tapping play.

As he buckles his seatbelt and starts the car, the low, atmospheric notes of Plainsong hum through the car, slow and sprawling, filling every corner of the car like the warmth of an old memory.

It feels like hugging a long-lost friend.

His smile lasts all the way on the road to Albuquerque

"I think I'm old and I'm feeling pain, " you said

"And it's all running out

Like it's the end of the world, " you said

"And it's so cold, it's like the cold if you were dead”

Then you smiled for a second

The day their friendship ended wasn’t loud or dramatic. There wasn’t a big fight or a punch thrown, no screaming, no crying, no kicking, no shoving, no insulting

It was quiet, anti-climactic, long time coming.

A few months had passed since Kyle told Stan to fuck off for good. Even Cartman, who usually took every chance to mock someone else's misery, hadn’t said much about it. Just pursed his lips, still slammed his lunch tray on the seat across Stan for some time. But that ended as well.

The air was cool, the scent of damp earth and pine needles hanging around Stark’s Pond. Stan leaned against the wooden fence, kicking a loose rock every now and then, next to him, Kenny took a deep breath. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, "You’ve been dodging me all week," he said, visibly frustrated.

Stan didn’t look up. This is it.

"Didn’t feel like it."

"Yeah, I noticed. You haven’t felt like doing anything lately. You didn’t even show up to Cartman’s last night."

"Didn’t seem important, whether I showed up or not." 

"Important?" Kenny repeated, gritting through clenched teeth. "What the hell is important to you anymore, Stan? You don’t talk to us, you don’t do anything, you just sit around moping"

Finally, Stan looked up, his bloodshot eyes - he remembers the itch behind his eyes then, doesn't remember why, probably drank too much the night before, not like it helped much - meeting Kenny’s. "You don’t get it."

He just didn't get it. Stan didn't know how to explain it.

How do you go on when nothing makes you happy anymore? No one had answers to that, his friends long expressed their distaste of talking about it. S tan had nothing left to say.

"Then make me get it, I asked you this before!" Kenny shot back. "Let me tell you what I don't get: You’ve got everything, Stan! You’ve got a nice house, a family that doesn’t have to worry about where their next meal’s coming from, friends who actually give a shit about you - same friends you keep pushing aaway - and you’re just throwing it all away! Do you know how much I’d kill to have what you have? So, tell me, what am I just not getting?"

Stan flinched. "It doesn’t matter." 

"Doesn’t matter?" Kenny’s voice cracked, his anger turning to desperation. "Are you even hearing yourself right now? I have nothing! My parents don’t care about me. They’re addicts! But I can’t just sit around feeling sorry for myself all the time, Stan. C’mon, dude. Do you even care? About anything? What about us? We've always been friends."

He did, God, he did. But it didn't feel like it did before. So, did he still care about it? Stan didn't have answer to himself, how could he give one to Kenny?

So, he didn’t say anything.

"You know what?" Kenny finally said, "Fine. I..." Sniffle. "You may not care, but I care, dude. And I can't be around if you don't.. I hope you get it together. You know where I am." 

Stan didn’t look up as Kenny turned and walked away, his boots crunching in the snow. 

It’s nearing 8 pm by the time they make it to Albuquerque.

"Home sweet home, of Walter White, I mean," Kenny says, managing to squeeze in among the songs they’ve been blasting through the car’s speakers.

The songs Stan has chosen so far must've awakened something in the others, a sense of nostalgia for them, which has been a reunion for Stan.

With every song that belts its last notes, Stan remembers another one.

This time, his voice accompanies those of his friends, as they sing the whole way to the city. They’ve gone through Every Planet We Reach is Dead three times in a row now, a song that’s always been one of Stan’s favorites. At this point, they started alternating parts without prior signalling, falling back to their dynamics like it's they've been reset to their default settings.

I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine in a bag
I'm useless but not for long
The future is coming on

His voice cracks, and so does Kyle and Kenny's- Cartman's just fine, consiering he's the one who kept downnign all the water that should've been distributed equally - quickly find a gas station, re-stock on water before moving to a McDonalds.

Stan's browsing on his phone, already having downed his Quarter Pounder, and nearly coughs an entire lung out when he sees how many albums he missed out on over the years. He hadn't even thought to look before. Opening his Notes, he makes a quick list, Things to Do Before I Die, and adds Listen to all the new shit. He can afford losing a few more hours before does what he has to do. 

"So, it's like, nine pm. What do we do?"

"Where do we sleep?"

"Stan?"

"Yeah?" Stan looks up, his gaze meeting Kyle’s.

They all fall silent for a moment, weighing their options. They've spent so much in Santa Fe and Taos, mostly on food, that now renting a room is out of the question. They still have a state, and like, four main stops to go through. They just can't get a motel everywhere they go.

“We can just park somewhere on the outskirts,” he suggests, half unsure, “We got my uncle's camping gear. We can just sleep in the back of my pickup.”

Kyle's eyes stretch wide just as Kenny chimes in, "Sweet."

"Sounds good. What could go wrong?"

Kyle sighs, already anticipating the next phone calls he'll have to have with Ike and his mom.

Kenny is standing in front of the boys, holding up the fake ID with a smug grin, and waggles it between two fingers as they stand outside the liquor mart.

“Gentlemen,” he says, voice dripping with pride, “I present to you: top-tier craftsmanship. Freshly baked, well it's been a while actually, but freshly obtained, from Kevin McCormick.”

“The hell?”

“This, right here, is the New Mexico edition,” he says.

Cartman snorts, grabbing it from Kenny’s hand. “This guy looks nothing like you.”

Kenny yanks it back before Cartman can scrutinize it any further.

“Yeah, well, neither do half the guys on these.” He pulls out a small stack of IDs from his wallet, all different states, all slightly different names, and fans them out like a deck of pokemon cards.“You want beer or not?”

Kyle groans, rubbing his face. “Why do you even have that many?”

“Situations, circumstances, you know…” Kenny says simply. "You never know when you're gonna need to be a…” He takes a look at the ID he plucked out of the stack, “ … a 25-year-old from Arizona.” he says, “Some are fake fake, some are real we took from people around. ” 

He picks another one, “Kevin’s actual driver’s license. I just filched this from his wallet, dumbass left it in his jacket, which I stole as well. Hey, it was just standing there.” Then another. "Bebe’s cousin’s ID from, like, two years ago. We’re both blonde, so this one may actually work, no problemo.”

Stan takes one of the IDs from the bulky stack, and takes a look.

COLORADO Identification Card

Jack Mehoff    06/25/1991

“That’s a full fake,” You don’t say.  “Kevin has one for New Mexico, Utah, Wyoming, Michigan, for some reason, aaaaand—” He pauses and looks at the last card, “Louisiana.” 

“Dude.” Stan looks at the ID again. “What kinda job does Kevin have?”

“Station attendant at night, package handler by day. Why?”

“You sure?”

“You guys want anything?” Kenny ignores the question, looking at the other two next to Stan.

Cartman and Kyle shrug, “Some beer? Maybe get a pack.” 

Stan shifts uncomfortably. He hasn’t made a big deal about being sober, and others didn’t press much the first time he told them. “I’m good.”

“Alright. Any suggestions? We usually grab whatever we find in whoever’s house, I never bought drinks by myself before.”

“Anything but S'more Schnapps.”

Randy’s favorite.

“Too light? Too strong?”

“Just ass.”

Kenny salutes. “Noted.”

Cartman claps him on the back, then slungs the arm around Kenny’s shoulders, “Get something that’ll make Kyle loosen the hell up.”

“You think Everclear’ll be enough?” Kenny jokes in return, laughing at Kyle’s gradually souring face. “We might have better luck with some isopropyl.”

Cartman, of course, is beaming. “This is the proudest I’ve ever been of you, Kenny.”

Kenny claps a hand over his heart. “Coming from you, that means nothing.”

“Just go.”  Stan says, “If you get busted, we’ll say you’re retarded.”

“Jaa, sugu modoru~” 

“Huh?”

But Kenny is already on his way, skipping towards the store.

Stan thumbs through the stack of IDs shoved in his hands.

MICHIGAN Identification Card

Hugh Jass    09/11/1992

Sigh.

Stan turned sixteen in a dark room that smelled like old blankets, his mom's chamomile tea, and the rain that hasn’t stopped for days.

It’s been five since Sparky died.

Five days since they buried him under the old tree in the backyard. Five days since he stopped going to school, to the porch, hell, to the couch downstairs.

S helley had come home from college the moment she heard. Walked through the door with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder and gone straight to his room. Stan hadn’t spoken when she came in, just curled in on himself like something small and dying. If only.

He didn't feel like a human being, because he couldn't breathe. There was air around him, full of oxygen and all that shit, and yet Stan couldn't breathe. If he jumped into the deepest part of Stark's Pond, would he be able to breathe there?

Shelley didn't say much either, but sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his hair. It reminded him of when they were kids, with how the complete opposite of a gesture it was, back when she’d pull him into a headlock and only let go when he started crying.

This time Stan didn't cry. He already did, the first night, curled around his life-long friend, his best friend, the only one he ever really had left.

His phone vibrated once on his nightstand, the screen lighting up the dim room for a moment. He didn’t move to check it. 

Shelley was the one who picked it up, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, and checked it for him.

The message was from Kenny.

Kenny

happy birthday dude

hope ur doing ok

“Kenny’s wishing you a happy birthday, Stan.” No response. Stan didn’t talk about Kenny, Kyle, or Cartman anymore. Whenever their names came up, his face would go blank, like a door slamming shut. ”I’ll text him back for you, that okay?”

Stan gave her a nod, a subtle shift in the blankets that his sister correctly translated as constent. So she unlocked the phone  and typed back a quick reply, keeping it short.

Stan

thanks man

appreciate it

Kenny responded almost instantly.

Kenny

lemme know if u wanna hang

or sum

:)

She didn’t respond to that. Locked the phone again and set it back on the nightstand, screen down.

Later, when she had asked Stan if he saw what Kenny said, she had only gotten a nod.

The sound of beer cans cracking open fill the air.

It doesn't affect Stan as much as it used to. He used to go for whiskey, wine, anything that came in a long bottle to avoid that sound, that long hiss followed by a crisp pop. And soon after that, shouting, yelling, insults, crashes.

He never wanted to be like Randy.

In some ways, he failed. In others, he managed.

Kenny had somehow snagged a twelve-pack from the mart, strolling out of the store grinning like a kid hauling his first Christmas tree.

He and Cartman are giddy the whole drive out of the city, cracking jokes between swigs of beer acquired through sinful methods, hyping up the night ahead. They drive just far enough that they don't see any buildings in the distance, leaving city lights behind, nothing but open desert and sky.

They take out the camping gear, but all interest is lost the second Stan unfolds the manual Uncle Jimbo gave him. Kenny barely glances at it before tossing it aside and lighting the fire himself— fast, too fast, alarmingly fast, and looks a bit too easy for him.

Soon, the flames are flickering, the cans are popping open, and the conversation flows as easily as the alcohol seeping into their bloodstreams.

They’re laughing, all buzzed, Stan for different reason- still riding a bit high of the whole I-just-heard-actual-fucking-music thing he experienced barely a few hours ago.

Kenny’s head finds his shoulder again— he hasn’t had much to drink, barely halfway through his first beer—while Kyle and Cartman have fully succumbed to some kind of drunken dick-measuring contest, bickering between gulps, and Stan watches the sobriety leave their eyes in real time.

“Which one should I send to the boys?

Stan looks at the photos —selfies — Kenny took of their group. He chooses the one the blonde looks best in, knowing Douchebag will see it. Kenny hums and nods in acknowledgement and opens SPF18+.

[SPF18+ RANKED WED 5PM 5/5]

Clyde OWES 9$

jimmy

u cant b serius rn

Jimmy IOU 13$

sorry

cant let my improv team down

Tweek IOU 10$

DUDE!?#@!

IF JIMMYS NOT PLAY NG

THENFORGET IT

IM NOT GOINGBOT WITOUT HIM ARE U CRAZYY?!@!?!

Craig 凸

omg

Tolkien

bro wtf

David

insane

Scott IOU 7$

those 3

dipped once

now we r cursed

or smth

Clyde OWES 9$

k thats enough

meeting w/ witch girls tmrw 

ill undo this

we might need sum fingernails

Clyde OWES 9$ changed the group name  

[SPF18+ ON HOLD]

Kenny

[Photo]

proof of life

camping edition 

✌︎('ω')✌︎

Craig 凸

not the

fucking time

kenny

David R

y does this feel like an AI-gen img

Scott IOU 7$ 

r u guys high

Kenny  

not high

just happy

a lil buzzing

bzzzz

             . ' ' ' .
            .         .  
            .         .                   __ _  
 .           .       .                    \ _\\_\_/_
    .          ' . '               . .__// // // ._.\
       '  .  .  ' ' .          . '      \\_\\_\\____/
                      ' . . . '          / /   /  \

Craig 凸

y tf

did u have that ready

David R

i dont wanna alarm anyone

but stans smiling

Craig 凸  

thats scariest part of this pic

Clyde OWES 9$  

yea 

the hell did u guys do 2 him

possessed?

Tweek IOU 10$

dontjoke about that

u know thats liek fr

right??g/

Kenny  

lmao stfu man

he can smile w/out it being a gov conspiracy

Butters IOU 44$  

aw thats real nice

its good 2 see u all together again

Tolkien

officially convinced this trip is real lol

Scott IOU 7$ 

k thats enough

who kidnapped who

Cartman ✂╰⋃╯ 

I kindape tem

“Get away from your phone, fat-ass. You can’t even see the keyboard.” Kenny laughs, and whisks the phone out of Cartman's hands, the boy in question doesn't even realise, fingers tapping the air. Stan and Kenny lose their shit at the scene, and Kyle immediately takes his phone out to record Cartman. Payback.

"Who're you texting, fatass?"

"Your mom." 

Stan's not drunk, not this time, whereas the other three are gone. Intoxicated, plastered, whatever you can call a shit-faced drunk.

It perfectly parallels what they used to be.

But his friends (?) don’t look like how he did back then. He remembers forgetting to shower, skipping whole days at a time, cracking open a bottle on a Wednesday and finds his hands reaching under his bed for another one on a Monday.

It feels like a scene from a movie. But considerably more ridiculous, like that one dance in Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, that Shelley made Stan sit through countless times.

Locked hands, the four of them spin around the make-shift fire they made with Jimbo's instructions, singing loudly into the dark desert night in the outskirts of Albuquerque, unlike whatever was played in Shelley's chickflick, the boys are calling out for Miss Gradenko at the top of their lungs. 

They keep going, laughing and yelling into the desert’s vastness. At one point, they start skipping around each other in pairs.

The way Kyle gravitates toward him so easily makes Stan's heart soar, then sink, all at once. There's a familiar ache that rises and falls at the same time. Their hands clasp, the most physical contact they’ve shared in five years, and Stan doesn’t even think about the fact that Kyle won’t remember this in the morning.

They spin, hands locked, dizzying and carefree. Somewhere in the blur, Stan finds himself twirling Kenny, then Cartman is locking arms with him as they keep the rhythm spinning clockwise. 

Hours later, after the fire’s been snuffed out and empty beer cans are scattered around them, they can barely muster the energy to crawl onto the cargo bed of the truck.

Stan finds himself lying down cornered, with Kyle falling face-first next to him- Stan manages to catch his head the last second, saving Kyle's perfectly fine nose - then followed by Kenny and Cartman. The tent is forgotten with the rest of the camping gear that've been waiting for them ever since they took it out of the car.

On the outskirts of Duke City, Stan stares at the sky. He closes his eyes to the stars, takes a deep breath. In, out. Then he pulls out his phone.

Kenny,

Ok, this is harder than I thought.

I know this is probably something you wouldn’t want to hear from me, but I can't leave without saying it. I can see now how much you gave in our friendship, and how I never gave back. I took that for granted like I did everything else. You were right about me. There’s something wrong with me, I still can’t see the things the way others do, but I’ve grown to understand. 

Life hasn’t been fair to you—far from it—but you always made it seem like life was still worth something. I don’t know how you did it, honestly. You're pretty great at that. Thank you, dude, you made my last days bearable. You don't know what you did - and you didn't have to try - but somehow you unclogged my brain, or something. Thanks to you, I’m not gonna die without listening to the TWO Gorillaz albums I’ve missed. 

You’ll do great things, Kenny. You’ve got it in you to go farther than any of us, and I’m not just talking about Colorado. There’s probably a handful of people who deserve to in our town, and you’re in top 5, for sure. I won’t be around to see it, but I’m sure. Maybe in 20 years, you’ll even say “Wow, Stan was right.” 

Scratch that, I prefer if you don’t think about me at all. 

Live well, dude.

Stan

Chapter Text

It's not too early when Stan wakes up with Kyle’s head on his shoulder and Kenny’s hand in his mouth— how he managed to reach over Kyle to get to him, Stan’s not sure. Guess Kenny’s arms are just freakishly long like that, you couldn’t tell with the way he always has them in his pockets.

Stan carefully untangles himself from the mess of limbs, trying not to disturb the others too much, and scoots out of the back of his pickup truck.

He grabs the empty beer cans, tossing them into the plastic trash bag Kenny grabbed from the convenience store earlier. He sets it aside and moves on to the abandoned camping equipment scattered around. Once it's done, he checks the time- nearing 11 a.m. He digs into the bag for the stale crackers from the first day— not great, but it'll do to fill his stomach just enough for meds.

Barely an hour later, the others start waking up one by one. Kyle, as always, immediately starts cracking every bone in his body— all 206 of them, probably. Thanks, Shelley, and the Hannah Montana earworm she infected Stan with years ago.

He and Kenny, still in a daze, attempt to clean up trash that’s already been cleaned up before they both realize what they’re doing. Then they just surrender to the backseat, slumped on each other in resignation.

When Cartman stumbles toward the backseat out of habit, Stan can’t help but chuckle, steering him to the front with both hands on his shoulders.

"You're shotgun now, big guy."

"Hell yeah, I am," Cartman mumbles. "I'm shot-fucking-gun.” He plops down onto the front seat, claiming his hard-earned position with all the pomp and circumstance he can muster, which isn;t much.

And so, their first real destination in Albuquerque: a pharmacy.

Stan picks up some Advil for the hungovers, then parks in a random drive-in, which wakes Kenny and Cartman right up as it turns out to be a place from Breaking Bad, not like Stan remembers much about the show. 

Kyle doesn’t see the big deal.

“We’re in Duke City,” he tells them flatly, “…Wherever we go is gonna be some place from Breaking Bad.” 

No one listens. Cartman’s already leaning out the window, snapping a picture like a tourist, while Kenny mutters something about a deal.

A worker rolls up to their car to take their orders—one chili cheese footlong each for Stan and Kyle, while Kenny and Cartman somehow justify splitting five between them, like the goblins they are. Once their food arrives, the boys climb into the truck bed, sitting cross-legged as they eat.

The hotdogs seem to work miracles, bringing the three beer casualties back to life.

Stan and Kyle finish first— because of course they do. Stan, still a little full from the crackers he munched on earlier, even hands a third of his hot dog to Kenny. The food goblins are still hunched over their greasy paper trays, so Stan and Kyle turn their attention to a map Stan grabbed from the gas station near the pharmacy.

They spread it out between the four of them, trying to brainstorm what to do in Albuquerque— until Cartman, in his infinite sloppiness, drips mustard on the corner.

Kyle scowls and immediately snatches the map away, shifting closer to Stan without thinking.

Never mind that it makes Stan’s heart skip a beat, though he doesn’t risk a glance to the redhead, like he’s some wild animal that’ll get scared and run away if he does.

The two of them scan the map together, heads close, narrating their findings to Kenny and Cartman as they keep eating.

“And so, there’s the Old Town Plaza, and—”

“Oh my God,” Cartman groans through a mouthful of hotdog. “Why the fuck are there plazas everywhere in this state?”

“It’s ‘cause of the Spanish Colonial period, dumbass. Back then, the law said towns had to have plazas—”

“Right, right. Of course you know why. We don’t actually care, Jewtard.”

Kyle’s eye twitches. “You fucking asked, fat-ass, and I fucking answered—”

“Other than that,” Stan cuts in before another fight breaks out. He traces a finger along the map, flattening out a crease.  “We’ve got the Sandia Peak Tramway, that might be cool, some more museums, there’s a rattlesnake one, a zoo—”

“Why’d they name it Biopark Zoo? Isn’t a zoo already some kind of biological park?” Kyle asks, resting his head in his palm, his cheek squished in a way that makes it look almost pinchable. “Like how people say ‘chai tea’ when chai already means tea.”

“I dunno. Maybe there’s like… bacteria or something.”

Kyle snorts. “Bacteria,” he repeats, shooting Stan a lopsided smile. “Like, in cages?”

“Can’t you put bacteria in a cages?”

“I don’t think you can.”

“You sound real confident about that.”

“I kinda am, actually.”

Something about Kyle’s tone makes Stan match it automatically, a smirk creeping onto his face.

“Well, I bet there’s a room in this BioPark filled with microscopes, and in each one, you can watch tiny little bacteria pacing around in their cages.”

“Oh yeah?” Kyle shoots back, eyebrows raised. “You bet?”

“Maybe even some algae, too.”

“You know all the microorganisms now?”

“Ohmygod they’re actually sucking each others cocks right now. Cut it out and focus. We’re in Breaking Bad land— we should be hitting up all the meth spots.”

“What, you wanna go shoot up in a trap house?” Kenny snickers, wiping mustard off the side of his mouth.

”Fuck yeah, just like the Shooting Gallery.” Cartman says, "Kenny, call your parents—don’t you get, like, a weekly jailhouse phone privilege or something? Tell them to hook us up.”

"Right, dude. Me, my folks, and our friendly neighborhood CPS agent can all brainstorm the best meth hotspot together.”

“Fine. Call Kevin.”

“I’m telling you, dude, he’s not a doing any of that!”

“You’re so full of—“

“Because he’s not —“

“Why can’t we just do drugs, what’s the big fucking deal?”

“Spoken like someone who's never done drugs.”

“Spoken like someone who's full of it—“

"No, you're right, Just injected some in my dick, actually, so feel free to suck it right out if you want it so bad—“

Kyle sighs, and extends an arm between the two as if it’s the blade of a guillotine, cutting the meaningless banter in two.

“So our options are... sightseeing like normal people, or one of Cartman’s illegal fantasies, which wouldn’t be the first one. I guess we all know better than to entertain him.”

"Isn't this supposed to be some kind of coming of age road trip, huh, Stan?" Cartman presses, “What’s coming of age without some drugs? Come on, man.” 

Yeah, Josh would like Cartman. If they don't kill each other upon meeting, they would actually get along in the long run.

"We're seventeen, stupid. That would be next year's trip." Kyle cuts in, “But since you want one so bad, I can give you a rite of passage right now, Cartman.”

“I've seen your bar mitzvah, I'm not interested in anything you come up with."

“Blah blah blah. Stop whining about it already. You’re supposed to be a Jew adult now, Kyle, that was the whole point. Grow up.”

"I'll show you grown up-"

“We're voting: Are we,” Stan begins, and Kyle mutters under his breath, is this it really necessary? Just let me tie him to a railroad track and wait for the next train and show him a real rite of passage. “Exploring or shooting up?”

Kenny raises his hand. “Voting to be Dora for the day!”

“That’s a no-brainer.” Kyle raises his hand, and so does Stan, looking at Cartman with a smirk. The brown haired boy glares at them. Stan shrugs in response, “Guess that’s three.”

Cartman glares. “Fucking rigged.”

"Elections usually are.”

“Well, this one isn’t. There's only four of us, and one is a retard.”

"Says the Jew."

“Let’s just drop him off at some trap house.”

"Okay, everyone, get back in the car. Time to go."

“¡Vamonos!”

“Oh, so now you know Spanish, Kenny.”

“Let’s go, Sparky!” Stan called out, watching as the bullboxer fell into step behind him. He walked ahead a bit, moving animatedly and jumping up and down to motivate Sparky.

Sparky started slowing down when Stan was fifteen.

At first, it was little things. He didn’t jump on the couch as easily, didn’t run to the door when Stan got home, didn’t wrestle with Buffy and Bear like he used to. He still wagged his tail, still gave Stan that same goofy dog grin, but he was slower.

Then there was the lumps. Small at first, but growing faster than Sparky could move anymore, multiplying. Mast cell tumors, their vet said, high-grade. A common cancer in older dogs, especially with Sparky being a bullboxer. Treatable in some cases, but Sparky was fourteen. Surgery might have been too hard on him. Life expectancy from now on would be a year at most, and that is the best possible outcome.

Stan heard all this, but it barely registered. The words sounded distant, like they were being spoken through glass of his aquarium. 

“We’ll make him comfortable,” Dr Cree had said. “That’s the best we can do.”  And so, Stan did just that.

Following Dr Cree’s palliative care plan, he fed Sparky the good food, real meat and no kibble.

He steamed carrots and pumpkin, mixed them with bone broth, added fish oils and turmeric. He had spent so much time in the kitchen, became quite the chef for Sparky. Cooking everything from crock pot roast to homemade meatball spaghetti. Though not all the time, added weight would’ve made the joint pains even worse.

As soon as he hit 15 and a half years, Stan got his learner's permit, so he could drive Sparky back and forth between the farmhouse and the clinic with his mom's car.

He carried him up and down the stairs, one eye always open just in case Sparky attempted to lift a paw toward the couch, the bed, the steps of the porch, he carried him outside when he so much as glanced at the backdoor, or looked like he wanted to go out. He cleaned up after Sparky peed himself, or vomited, no more scoldings, no more wagging a finger, just a swift call to Dr Cree and Sparky’s own daily cocktail now had ondansetron added in it on top of Palladia and omeprazole.

Tumors kept growing, of course, no matter how much Stan prayed on his knees each night. One time he turned to God, this ready and willing, and he’s left without solace.

Sparky’s breathing became labored, his dark eyes dull were half-lidded with exhaustion.

There were still some good days, where he perked up randomly, wagged his tail and kicked off after Stan or the B-Cubs —termed affectionately by their mom, much to Stan and Shelley’s amusement, the two didn’t say anything and so the names stuck— seeming like his younger self.

But the bad days had already started to outnumber them, and counting the good days became easier to do in numbers, yet the hardest thing Stan's ever had done.

The day passes without any more arguments about drugs. Not that Cartman would ever actually inject something unknown into his body—he just likes to stir shit up.

“He’s in the debate club,” Kenny says at one point. “Oh, right, you never watched him. He's ruthless, dude. Apparently, he’s in the suicide note of one of his opponents. Isn’t that crazy?”

Stan laughs. “Yeah. Crazy.”

They swing by Isotopes Park and take pictures with the Simpsons statues. Cartman even ends up buying an Isotopes cap, which he insists makes him look local. It just makes him look like baseball fan. He gets offended when they tell him that, and the cap finds another home on Stan's head.

"Here you go, Captain."

"Ugh, don't remind me." 

In the gift shop, as they browse through merchandise, over overpriced sodas, they start talking about making a cartoon one day.

“Kid-style animation but with crude jokes for adults,” Kenny pitches. They bounce around ideas for a pilot episode, but every single pitch ends with someone saying, “Simpsons already did that.”

By the time they walk out, the idea’s scribbled over and tossed in a trash can. "We can go on a retreat next, cut off evertyhing else and just brainstorm. Like, all we'll do is pitch cartoon ideas, how about that?"

They don’t go to the zoo. They pass by it, and Stan, deadpan, asks a security guard if the zoo has any bacteria. Kyle’s hovering near, clearly ready to yank him away if necessary. The blank stare the guard gives them is enough to make them reconsider on the spot. Kyle laughs, though, and smacks Stan’s arm. So... that’s something.

Instead of the zoo, they hit the Rattlesnake Museum downtown. Well, Stan and Kenny do. Kyle and Cartman flat-out refuse. Under no circumstances would they step into a den of slithering snakes. Their words.

The second they walk in, they’re greeted by a Western Diamondback, coiled neatly in the front enclosure. The owner, a friendly, weathered man with a passion for reptiles, gives them a tour, showing them not just snakes—but there lots of snakes—but also tarantulas, a black widow, turtles, and even a gila monster.

Stan and Kenny snap photos with most of the reptiles, posing with wide grins. The snakes don’t seem to mind. Only downside is that they don’t get to see them feed, which is apparently done after-hours.

By the time they leave, they’re both holding bottles of Snake Oil as memorabilia, proudly clutching Certificates of Bravery—This prestigious document awarded to blank, for showing little or no hesitation and wilfully entering the truly fascinating realm of the rattlesnake… Stan and Kenny wave their credentials in the faces of Kyle and Cartman as they chant coward, coward, coward and run down the street, with the two on their heels.

They refuel with lunch , then somehow wind up at the National Museum of Nuclear Science & History. 

For some reason, all four of them—okay, maybe not Kyle and Kenny, but definitely Stan and Cartman—had assumed they’d see, like, glowing green atoms or radioactive goo or something. Still, it’s not that boring. The jet fighters are cool, and the replicas of Little Boy and Fat Man bombs are way larger than expected.

Stan leans over to Cartman. “That’s you, fat-ass,” he says, pointing at Fat Man.

“I’m gonna shove that right up your ass, Little Boy,” Cartman fires back. “So be quiet.”

"They'd need to build a bigger one for you fit in, and call it Plump Guy."

"Plump? So now you're thirsting over me, because one Kenny is not enough, but we had to have two succubusin this fucking trip."

But then they’re both mildly disappointed that uranium cube isn’t neon green, or glowing, like neon is supposed to do.

“What color did you think neon is supposed to be?” Kyle asks, exasperated.

Stan frowns but Cartman answers for both of them, “That's a trick question. Nice try, Jew. Neon is a color.”

That earns a solid three minutes of laughter from the book-smart half of the four.

By the time evening starts settling in, they find themselves at the Sandia Peak Tramway.

The line’s long, but the view is supposed to be worth it, they're told by an elderly couple. It's a popular spot, considering how much the tram is packed when they board, close to fifty people crammed into the small space, swaying slightly as they begin their slow ascent up the mountain.

The sun’s already starting to dip, and down below, the city of Albuquerque begins to glitter, like someone scattered fairylights across the valley. As they rise, the air gets colder, not freezing, but cold enough that it reaches them through the windows and draws a shiver from anyone in a short sleeve.

"Dude, this is like, zip-lining without the PTSD." Kenny says, after they pestered a tourist to take a photo of them in the tram. 

"I guess. And without Cartman's explosive diarrhea."

"And without Kenny's herpes- oh wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. What kind of STDs are you currently carrying with you, Kenny?" 

They never get to learn, because a middle aged guy loudly says to the tour guide, "I'd like to know about the geology of the mountains!" and their eyes meet in horror. "Not again." Kyle mumbles, and presses his palms against his ears. Stan pats his back in sympathy.

The tram hums and creaks as it climbs, floating like a slow-moving lantern toward the sky. When they finally reach the top, the air is cool and thinner, and the view — the view is something, alriht.

From up here, the world stretches in all directions. West, the dormant volcanoes ripple rest against the gorizon. Mt Taylor sits proud in the distance. Below, the Rio Grande carves through the desert like a silver ribbon. The whole city sprawls out beneath them, like it's a small cutout map in the corner of a magazine. To the east, the ridges of New Mexico. Someone points and yells, “Look!”

A few hot air balloons drift lazily in the sky, painted in bright colors. For a long moment, no one says anything. Just the cold wind in their hair, the hum of conversations and sounds of awe, and clicks of snapshots being taken by all kind of cameras.

Kenny takes over Kyle’s camera and goes around taking photos of the view.

Stan stands a little apart, walking slowly without taking his eyes off the scenery,

The wind tugs at his sleeves as the chill settles in his bones. He’s glad for the long sleeves—even if the fabric is thin and not really doing much, it’s something. Without them, he’d be trembling his ass off.

"I feel like my eyes aren't enough for this view." Kyle falls into step beside him, which startles him for a bit, if Stan's being honest. He hopes he played it cool by not jumping in surprise like a cat.

"Same here." he replies, all cool, "Though they should've just said it'll be freaking cold up there," he shivers, and tugs on his sleeves again.

“Why are you wearing long sleeves, anyway?” Kyle asks suddenly, nudging his arm. “It’s August.”

His tone is casual enough, but Stan knows Kyle’s been watching him more lately, like he’s still trying to figure something out. Stan had half-expected this question earlier, honestly. Just because of the red-head's usual curiosity and meddling personality, much like Shelia.

Maybe the ice between them had finally melted just enough to let them ask each other things again without flinching, cringing, or running off.

“Yeah, I know, genius,” he says, and Kyle rolls his eyes, “My stomach’s been messed up from, y'know, drinking. Kinda wrecked, actually. I’m still on supplements and stuff. Makes me cold easy, I guess.”

He shrugs. It’s not a lie, not really. Just not the full truth either. Stan doesn’t know how accurate that sounds medically, but it is what’s going on with him, so he rolls with it.

Kyle goes quiet.

When Stan glances over again, Kyle’s not looking at him, but there’s a furrow in his brow and a tightness in his mouth that hadn’t been there a second ago. He looks sad. Guilty, maybe. No, he's not. Stan tells himself, don't get ahead of yourself, what's this got to do with Kyle, they both know this, so there's no point in the ginger feeling guilty. He isn't.

Stan nudges him back, "You good?" startling Kyle, who looks like he wasn't expecting Stan to acknowledge it. "Yeah. Just." he clears his throat, “That sucks." 

"Don't worry about it," Stan smiles, "It's not that bad. Now you get why I hogged the toilet back in Santa Fe. Damn chili messed me up.”

Kyle lets out a barking laughter at that, and suddenly Stan feels so light, that he thinks if he jumps off here, he'll be able to fly above the city.

"I hope it gets better, dude."

"Thanks, dude."

After descending from Sandia Peak, Stan parks the car on the outskirts of Albuquerque. The night air is cool as they lie back in the cargo bed, the stars flickering above them. They close their final night in Duke City in silence.

Cartman, as it turns out, is a terrific co-pilot. 

And by terrific, Stan means an overbearing, micromanaging tiger mom type. Even worse than Shelley, who—if anything—now looks like a watered-down version of Eric Cartman in passenger seat. At least Shelley let him do his thing, and didn't turn the car into the panopticon.

Then again, when has Cartman not liked to control or hijack something? Hell, Stan still cringes thinking about how many times Cartman literally locked him and Kyle in a room to force them to make up (or, as Cartman later tried to justify, make out).

Stan can’t even change lanes without some interrogation from the passenger seat. God forbid he tries to glance at the GPS himself—Cartman’s already got a vice grip on both that and the playlist. At this point, the car has turned into a full-blown dictatorship, a one-man regime fueled by pure spite and payback for getting overruled earlier.

Meanwhile, the backseat has never been more peaceful. Like a kingdom finally rid of its tyrant, the Land of Kenny and Kyle is thriving. The two sit shoulder to shoulder, laughing as they scroll through Vine, blissfully unbothered by the autocracy unfolding up front. Stan is this close to asking for an international intervention, and bites his tongue or else he’ll end up saying— Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was America. He can still feel the second hand embarrassment burning against his throat.

“Sure, grip the grab handle like I’m about to drive off the road…” he huffs, throwing Cartman a side-eye as he switches lanes.

“I have to, because you drive like a blind chimp with a death wish,” Cartman fires back, gripping the “oh-shit” handle tighter. “It’s like you’re escaping from the circus. You hesitated back there—why did you hesitate? That guy in the truck saw weakness, Stan. You can’t show weakness to the trucks.”

Stan rolls his eyes, adjusting the wheel with one hand. “Oh, don’t worry. No truck will drive over us when they see the fat-ass sitting shotgun—”

Meanwhile, in the backseat, Kyle snorts so hard he nearly drops Kenny’s phone, making the earphones they share fall onto the seat between them.

“Dude—dude, this one,” Kenny wheezes, tapping at the screen. Kyle bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach. 

“Oh, yeah?” Cartman scoffs from the front. “Well, I forgot what it’s like to be in a car with someone who isn’t an incompetent dumbass, but here we are!”

“You’re backseating sitting shotgun.”

“I have to! Otherwise, we’re be roadkill on I-40!”

“Oh, sorry, and where was your driver’s license?”

“My cereal box didn’t come with one like yours did, not yet.”

“If you don’t like how I drive, there’s the door, get out and walk.”

“Maybe I will! I’d probably get there faster—”

“I’d be doing you a favor, you could sure lose a few pounds.”

“Sorry I didn’t destroy my stomach lining with alcohol and now get sick eating two bites like you. Go throat your supplements.”

From the back, “Kenny, why do you have so many videos of people getting hit saved?”

“I know what I like,” Kenny shrugs.

Stan exhales, gripping the wheel tighter. This is gonna be a long drive to Roswell.

Cartman

im telling every1 janitor molesterd u n calling CPS if u dont come 2 th sk8park

Stan

jfc

fine

Cartman

thats what i thought

bitch

Hence why Stan was at the skatepark, half-heartedly pushing up and down the funbox with his board.

The familiar sound of trucks hitting coping echoed around him; most of the boys living close by had shown up as soon as the sun came out.

They all had different types of boards—some new, some old, some second-hand, some repaired and some not.

Stan's was new, a result of the last time Cartman and Kenny had knocked on his door, telling him to come to the skatepark. Up until then, Stan’s excuse had been that he didn’t have a skateboard, but unfortunately for him, his mom had overheard.

The next day, he had a brand new Element complete.

Kyle had ditched them within ten minutes of seeing Stan, muttering something like, “I'm going to the quarterpipe.” before speeding off toward Tolkien and others. Stan had pretended not to care, but he did.

Kenny was over by the ramps, laughing too loudly with Butters at New Kid's failed aerials. Which left Cartman with Stan...

Honestly, Stan didn’t know why he was still here, why he threatened him to come here, and started skating alongside him. He didn’t even look like he was having fun—just pushing hard off the pavement, building speed, and then coming back around, slowed down.

"You look like shit, fag," Cartman finally said, coasting to a stop beside him. "Even your shadow looks like it can't wait for the sun to go down so it can die."

Stan rolled his eyes at him. "Leave me alone."

"You know what your problem is?" Cartman went on, "You think if you mope hard enough, everyone’s gonna bend over backwards to fix your emo little brain. But guess what? That just not it, dumbass, we can't fucking reach your head and read your thoughts."

"I don't think that."

"You mope like you do."

Stan made another loop instead of answering, trying not to rise to it.

"You think you’re special because you're just so negative all the time?" Cartman said, stepping off his board now. “But it doesn't make you deep, it doesn't make you interesting. It just makes you miserable, and really fucking boring to be around.”

Cartman put his forearms against the funbox railing.

"And guess what?" he pushed further, leaning in, "Everyone's sick of it. Kyle can’t even look at you without wanting to punch you. Kenny’s stuck playing peace diplomat, and let me tell you, he doesn't like doing all that. I’m the only one who’ll tell you to your face that you’re being pathetic. So maybe you should thank me instead of avoiding me."

"Why are you even here?" Stan muttered.

“I dunno." Cartman shrugged. "Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I want to see if I wring you like a rag, if there’ll still be more than gray laundry water coming out. Maybe some leftover sense of fun?”

Stan glared at him then. 

“There it is,” Cartman pointed a finger at him. “That's... almost anger. Maybe I can actually piss you back into existing. Or maybe you're just constipated?”

Stan kicked his board out and started toward the rail again, much faster than the baby loops he’d gone all day. He snapped his board into a quick kickflip, landing on the ledge, a little roughly, carving sharply as he sped past the coping. Either this, or a punch to Cartman's face. And he didn't want to deal with the latter.

Cartman laughed behind him, and hollered something like, "Atta boy"

Stan didn't say anything. Went around for another kickflip, a little fired up now. Kyle can’t even look at you without wanting to punch you.

They arrive in Roswell around midday, the sun hanging high and unforgiving over the desert horizon. First things first—as always—they hunt down a place to crash. Somewhere to shower, piss in peace, and, according to Kyle, brush their damn teeth for once.

“We get it, Kyle,” Cartman grumbles, dragging his backpack across the parking lot, to the inn that drew their eyes with its sign.

Welcome

Make Your Reservations Earthlings

A neon-green alien glows above the building, and right by the entrance, a sign featuring an alien reads CRASH HERE. Naturally, they lose it.

Not even two minutes later, they’re huddled next to the sign, messy-haired and half-sweaty from the long drive, taking a group photo with Kyle’s camera. Kenny reaches and touches the pointing finger of the alien with his index finger, making sure their fingertips meet on the word Here like  E.T. and Elliot.

Outside, the town is drenched in otherworldly kitsch. At least anywhere within walking distance—or a short drive—are places like the Offworld Trade Goods center, a soda bar called Cosmic Jukebox that they end up getting some refreshments from, gift shops called Area 51, to a light show place Do the Spacewalk. A green alien head pops out from every corner, waving or grinning or holding a product, with rocket-ships, UFOs and plantes scattered around.

"Dude, the amount of space and alien puns are melting my brain." Kyle says as they walk past another green store, "I'm starting feel like an alien myself."

"There's another Not Of This World right there," Stan says, pointing to another shop across the street, and Kyle throws his head back with a whine, "I'm seein it, dude. Right next to the fourth, Third Rock From The Sun."

Cartman's eyes flicker toward down the street, "At least Subway’s fucking normal."

Meanwhile, Kenny is thriving. He’s got his phone out constantly, snapping pictures of every single tourist trap, every alien statue, every corner with a Area 51 sign plastered on it. He sends them all to New Kid, nudging Stan's elbow as he does it.

Kenny

[Photo]

this where they kept u bro?

[Photo]

any familiar??

[Photo]

recog this room alien boy???

[Photo]

Newkid 🜲 

getting colder

Kenny

"( – ⌓ – )

For all their younger counterarts have tried to avoid troust traps, well except Kenny, they go in nearly everything they see here.

At the International UFO Museum and Research Center, the boys are half skeptical, half swept up in the vibe. The second they walk in, Cartman mutters under his breath, “Okay, this place better have a door to an actual spaceship or I want my seven dollars back.”

The museum’s layout is old-school but packed with stuff—huge display boards about the Roswell Incident, blown-up newspaper clippings, vintage black-and-white photos of military officers and crash sites. In another exhibit, there are loops low-budget documentaries full of spooky music and blurry UFO footage are.

It's a fun museum, for once. They dart from one exhibit to the next. Kenny's hand shoots up when a tour guide starts speaking to a small group of visitors near the mural wall. The woman smiles, pointing at him. “Yes, cute boy with the orange t-shirt.”

“Hey, hi,” Kenny says, deadpan serious. “My friend told me a baby got abducted by aliens. He heard it from KDVR.”

Laughter bubbles through the group.

“Oh ,well I think that news went a little different,” the guide says, “A baby alien art piece was abducted by humans. A muralist from Salinas, said his alien vanished. We hoped the opposite, but—oh I mean, well- not the opposite, opposite, but-”

"Then why did my friend told me that a baby got abducted by aliens?"

"Must've been a communication error, my boy."

"What if a baby actually got abducted but the Pentagon forced this random muralist to say all that as a cover up story?"

The tour guide is speechless at Kenny's seriousness, so Kyle just takes a hold of his elbow and drags him to another exhibit. 

“See? Aliens don’t abduct kids." Cartman tells him "We abduct them.”

Kyle elbows him. “That is not the takeaway.”

"Like there's one."

"I think there is." Kyle smiles at him. "Aliens only abduct fat ten year olds and put probes in their fat- Ouch!"

They leave with their admission stickers still proudly stuck to their shirts, because apparently, some nearby stores give discounts if you show them.

Cartman sighs, eyeing the sticker. “Ten percent off lunch if we out ourselves as fucking alien believer losers…” His gaze shifts to the diners lining the streets, “You know what? I’ll take it. Let’s go.”

After some more time walking around, they nearly miss the place at first. Sandwiched between a shuttered store and a discount tobacco shop, Zone II doesn’t exactly scream top-secret alien facility. But the moment they spot the big ALIEN HQ – TOP SECRET sign painted above the entrance in a suspiciously Comic Sans-esque font, they know they’ve arrived at greatness.

Inside, the air is cool and a little musty, like a secondhand costume shop. It's the photo op room that sells it to them. Two bucks a head, and they’re in.

“Dude,” Kenny says, staring at a scene with an alien behind a grill in a Hawaiian shirt, flipping burgers, probably cow, because what else could it be? “This is already the best two dollars I’ve ever spent.”

"Do you remember when I said 'Everything fun costs at least 8 dollars' ?" Cartman asks, sitting next to an alien hunched over a musty couch with a beer can in hand, "Well, that was fucking bullshit. New minimum's at two. Take a photo of me, Stan."

A whole family of aliens mid-meal at a fast food joint, and—Stan’s favorite so far—a room where aliens appear to be walking on the ceiling. The illusion's a little wobbly, but the photo's gold, worth spending ten minutes arranging the poses.

Kyle can’t stop laughing at Cartman sitting behind bars with a gray alien in the Alien Jail.

“Finally got caught for galactic tax fraud, huh?” he says, taking a picture of him.

“Discrimination against human lifeforms,” Cartman quips back. “I got probed without consent. Whereas Extraterrestrial Mike over here," he points to his alien cellmate, "got off scot free."

The autopsy room, with the real props from the 1994 Showtime movie Roswell, they're told, is as great as the rest. They pose as surgeons surrounding the poor alien specimen. With imaginary scalpels in their hands, surgical gloves from the staf Kenny manages to get from the staff, and snap them on. The same staff takes the group shot, and when they see it later, it's so dumb it’s the best thing ever.

Before they leave, they load up on t-shirts from the gift shop. Kenny grabs two extras—one for Karen and one for New Kid—after seeing the prices are low enough to swing it.

The cashier, a sunburnt guy with a gray ponytail and a UFO patch on his vest, chats with them a while.

“So, where you boys comin’ from?”

“Colorado.” 

“You guys look like you’ve been microwaved.”

“I feel like I’ve been,” Kenny says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You gotta install an AC in the back, man."

"Tell me about it. Staying here long?"

“We’re leaving tomorrow, unfortunately.”

The cashier nods, leaning back on his stool. “Shame. You just missed the UFO Festival, too.”

"The what?”

“And what happens on that day?” Cartman asks. “Aliens come down for an annual orgy and fuck everyone in town?”

The man lets out a laugh. “I wish it was that fun.”

By late afternoon, they’re out of it, full to their throats, sick of aliens. All they want now is to eat something greasy in peace, preferably without green heads with huge black eyes watching them.

That’s when they see it.

A shimmering curve of silver in the distance, glinting under the setting sun. Kenny stops mid-step, squinting hard, then throws a wide-eyed glance at the others.

“You guys seeing this shit?”

The others freeze, following his line of sight, momentarily stunned. For a split second, the idea creeps in—no way. Did they actually—

Then, as if feeling their gaze, it lights up, a mix of red and yellow, and wait-

It’s a McDonald’s.

Shaped like a freaking flying saucer.

Cartman starts laughing first, wheezing.

“Dude,” Kenny says, holding up his phone and taking a photo, “Tell me this isn’t a sign to go eat there.”

“From God, obviously,” Cartman stars walking. “Or Ronald McDonald.”

They shuffle over, snap another group photo in front of the building—arms around each other like they're an archeological group just discovered the remains of an actual extraterrestrial life form, and another one of them hugging the gray alien statue by the entrance.

Kenny texts New Kid a picture of the UFO McDonald's as soon as he has a few fries in his stomach.

Newkid 🜲 

yup

i was born here

Kenny

i thought u d just write hot lol

Newkid 🜲 

u alr know what u r ;)

Stan side-eyes Kenny as the blonde pockets his phone and hides his smile in his burger.

Stan was sitting on the edge of one of the ramps when Kyle finally came over. Kenny had joined Stan and Cartman for a while, and the trio had tried some tic-tacs together. Cartman had wanted slushies, and Kenny had gone along for the free drink.

Kyle looked annoyed, a little pissed, the kind of mad that made him bite his cheeks and words to come out too fast. Stan didn't have to do anything to make him that way, which was usually the problem anyway. He let out a sigh, already sick and tired of whatever lecture he was about to be given.

"What happened? Ran out of energy going up and down the funbox?" Kyle asked, standing in front of Stan with his arms crossed.

Stan didn’t even look up. “Yeah, actually. A little tired."

“You’ve been riding the same rail for like an hour.”

"I’m fine right here.”

"You're not even having fun."

Stan shrugged. "So don’t watch."

Kyle made a noise—somewhere between a scoff and a growl—and dropped his board on the concrete with a loud crack. “Why the hell did you even come if you're just gonna sit around like a sad wet sock?”

"For the record," Stan began, glaring at him, "I got blackmailed."

"Boohoo, blackmailed my ass. Your mom even got you a skateboard. Don't be spoiled."

"Wow, look who's telling me."

That ticked off Kyle immediately, "You used to be normal, y’know," he continued, "You used to love skating. Now you're not trying to do a basic ollie."

Stan’s mouth felt dry, gritting his teeth. "You're right. I don't even like it anymore.

“Yeah, I know." Kyle scoffed. "Of course, you'd show up and be like this. It’s just what you do now.”

Stan's eyes flicked up, meeting Kyle’s. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Kyle snapped, “that no one wanted you here in the first place, Stan! Because we knew you’d ruin the mood. Again. But Cartman had to go and get you out just because Kenny told him to.”

The silence between them after that was so sudden it felt like time had paused, but the sounds of the skatepark turned into white noise, and Stan could no longer bear looking at Kyle's eyes. Kyle looked like he immediately regretted saying it. His face twisted like he was trying to swallow the words back down, but he was too stubborn to do so.

“Stan—”

“No, it’s fine,” Stan said flatly, standing up. “You’ve been wanting to say that for a while. Now you did. Cool.”

“Dude, I meant—I didn't mean--”

“You did,” Stan cut in, brushing past him to grab his board. “And it’s fine.”

Kyle didn’t stop him. He didn’t cry when he got home, and he didn't cry for two weeks after that, not until his parents sat him and Shelley and told them they're getting a divorce. 

The motel room they end up in is quiet, as is the night, save for the occasional rustle of someone shifting in their sleep. The others are out cold—Kyle curled up on the far edge of the bed, Kenny sprawled between him and Stan, and Cartman snoring lightly from the pull-out couch.

Stan lies awake, staring at the ceiling. 

He had been thinking since he noticed the date. For some reason, that day, tomorrow, always felt so far away.

It’ll be August 16 soon. I’ts just minutes away now. Stan looks at his phone again.

12:49

Stan sighs, swings his legs off the bed, and slips on his hoodie. Not bothering to pick his phone back up, he grabs the room key, not like the others need it right now, and pushes the door open as quietly as possible, stepping out into the warm desert night.

The parking lot is mostly empty, lit only by the flickering neon green glow of the motel alien. Stan makes his way to his truck, unlocking it with a soft click. He reaches into the glove compartment, pulling out the spare pack of cigarettes and a lighter. 

He sits down on the pavement behind the car. The first drag is harsh, but familiar. The smoke fills his lungs, funny enough, last time he’s smoked was almost exactly a year ago, too. Don’t let this be tradition, Stan tells himself, then he remembers, it won’t, there won’t be a next year.

Stan sits there for a good ten minutes and picks up his second cigarette when he hears a noise. He turns his head just as Cartman trudges up, barefoot - a sight that would've Kyle into a rage coma in itself and probably end up with an entry ban to their room. 

Cartman doesn’t say anything at first—just plops down next to Stan on the pavement, stretching his legs out with a grunt. Then, without looking, he tosses Stan’s phone into his lap.

“Your fucking phone woke me up, asshole.”

Stan blinks, catching it. The screen is still lit, showing a notification reminder:

[Sam’s Birthday]

Cartman sniffs, rubbing his nose. “Who the hell is Sam?”

Stan locks his phone without answering. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air, then wordlessly holds out the pack toward Cartman.

Cartman eyes him for a second before taking one. “I knew you were smoking something .” He sticks the cigarette between his lips, waiting for Stan to light it for him. Once it’s burning, he takes a deep inhale, coughing slightly on the exhale. “Fuck. Haven’t had one of these in a while.”

Stan just hums in response. Me too.

They sit in silence, the night stretching wide around them. The only sounds are the occasional crackle of the burning tobacco and the distant chirp of crickets in the dry brush.

Cartman glances over. “You gonna answer me, or are we just ignoring the Sam thing?”

Stan doesn’t look at him. He flicks ash onto the pavement, watching it scatter. “Does it matter?”

“Uh, yeah? Come on, dude, gimme something…Girlfriend? Secret boyfriend?” He asks, brown eyes widening with interest, “Whatever it is, it won’t work, your names are too similar. Remember Kelly, Kenny’s chick? The one he met in Costa Rica? Kelly from Maine?”

Stan looks at Cartman, “Wasn’t distance why she broke up?” Nevermind the fact that they were like nine years old.

“Meh, that was a cover. She knew their names made them look like they’re fucking twins, and I mean that in both ways.”

Cartman takes another drag, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before exhaling through his nose. He watches Stan out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to say something. Anything. But Stan just stares ahead, his cigarette burning down between his fingers, he knows Cartman won't let it go, though.

Then, voice quiet, he relents, “Sam’s my brother.”

Cartman frowns, confused. “What?”

“Half-brother.” Stan takes a slow breath. “He turns one today.”

For once, Cartman is speechless. He stares at Stan, waiting for him to laugh, to say he’s joking, but he doesn’t.

“…What the fuck?” Cartman finally says. “Brother?”

Stan nods.

“Since when?”

“Last year,” Stan says, deadpan. I literally just said he’s turning one today. He shifts, scratching at his knee. “Randy got remarried. Had a kid.”

Cartman blinks, processing. “Holy shit.”

Stan lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“So..." Cartman gets quiet for a minute, looking like he's gathering his thoughts.Stan can’t read him as easily as he used to—not that he was ever great at figuring out what Cartman was up to when they were kids. "..what are you gonna get him as a gift?”

Stan snorts. “What do you get a one-year-old?”

“Dunno. Beer? Dip his pacifiers into some, start him young.”

Stan shakes his head,“You’re a dumbass.”

“Yeah, well.” Cartman flicks his cigarette away. “At least I don’t have a secret baby brother.”

“Well, to be fair, you are the secret baby brother.”

That earns him a swift slap on the back of his head. Stan just chuckles, checks his phone again. 

Aug 16 / 00:07

“…I don’t know what to do with it,” Stan admits, stuffing it in his pocket again.

Cartman doesn’t say anything at first. Then, after a beat, “You don’t really have to do anything.”

Stan glances over at him, as the boy takes another drag and shrugs, all nonchalant as if it’s just another day a friend comes up to him and confesses he has a secret new sibling. “If you wanna care, care. If you don’t, fuck it.”

Stan lets that sit for a moment. Then he sighs, looking down, his cigarettes’s done. He crushes it under his shoe, and lights another one.

“…I guess.”

“It'd be, justified, you know.” Cartman runs a hand through his hair. “It’s like, a whole new level of fucked up for Randy. Jesus Christ. How’d he even break the news? I just can't imagine him being smooth about it.”

"Oh yeah, you don't even- wait-" Stan reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He unlocks it, opening the chat labeled Randy and scrolls up, and up, and up, turning the screen to the friend sitting next to him.

Cartman side-eyes him, squints at the wall of unread messages, and takes the phone from Stan’s hand.

Stan lay on his bed, Sparky curled up in his arms, the old dog’s head resting on his stomach. He had just followed along with the Senior Dog Massage video Dr. Cree had forwarded him, and kneaded gently along Sparky’s joints, careful of the lumps, and soon enough, the old man was out cold.

Speaking of old men—Stan hadn’t been expecting a text from his dad, but there it was. The notification lit up his screen, sending a familiar wave of irritation through him .He hadn’t heard from him in months, and if he was honest, he hadn’t been hoping for anything.  It has been the usual schedule with Randy: no schedule.

He unlocked the phone, half-expecting some text about a birthday -mine's in October, you're two months early, dad. No, not Shelley's either, that's in November. - or some other nonsense - I don't care about what employee you were sued by, dad. But it wasn’t any of that.

Dad

Hey, Stan. I know it's been a while.

I called you but you didn’t answer, but I actually got married. It's pretty new, almost a year now. Barbara has been an unexpected special someone, we kind of eloped without much planning, honestly. I’m sorry I kept if from you. It was so sudden that I guess I didn't know how to tell you. But I have bigger news.

Well, here it goes. Barbara and I had a baby. It’s a boy. You have a little brother now! 

[Photo]

We named him Samuel Ley Marsh. Ley, for you and Shelley. I thought it was genius, LOL

Took a lot to convince Barb but hey I made it 

And guess what, this way he is also a Samuel L. It’s perfect, isn’t it?

I know this is a lot. And things have been rough between us, but I still want you in my life, son.

Stan blinked at the barrage of messages, his mind slow to process them. He couldn’t breathe for a moment, just staring at the baby in the photo. Tiny body wrapped in a baby blue onesie. Tiny fists in matching mittens.

Despite his prior careful movements trying not to wake Sparky up or disturb him, Stan couldn't help but sit up on his bed. You have a little brother now! The letters on the screen turned into Randy's voice, and and exploded in his mind like someone had blown confetti right next to his ears—head ringing from it. Sparky, however, didn’t seem to care. With no clue about the storm raging inside Stan, he simply lifted his head, then rested it back down on the sheets, peaceful and undisturbed.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

He stared at the photo for longer than he should’ve, or maybe not as long as he should’ve. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn’t figure out how to respond. What would he even say?

‘Congrats on the kid’ like Randy’s just a friend from work and not his father.

‘I don’t care’ Stan can’t just say something like that.

‘You replaced me already?’ 

‘That’s how easy was it to put someone else in my place? A son? I was always here. Right here. You could’ve just come see me.’

He wanted to say many things, ask so much more. Instead, Stan didn’t write anything.

His phone buzzed again, another text from Randy. 

Dad

I really hope you’ll meet him. I’m doing it right this time, Stan.

Maybe you’ll see him when I visit. If you want me to, I will. Or maybe when you visit me?

You’d love Oregon too, if only you'd visit. I just know you and Sparky would love the Coast Range. We'll go hiking together like old times. You, me, Sparky.

Let me know if you want to talk.

Stan’s didn't reply. I’m doing it right this time.

He leaned back against the wall, and stared ahead. I’m doing it right this time.

It was hard to breathe when he felt like a carved turkey, nothing to breathe air into. I’m doing it right this time.

Randy had started a new family. He had a baby. I’m doing it right this time.

The thought gnawed at him, a new son. I’m doing it right this time.

It was the first time he’d heard from his dad in nearly a year, in which he apparently got married and busy under the radar, and it wasn’t to check on him. It wasn’t to see how he was doing. It was to introduce him to a stranger, wait, not one, but two strangers. Your little brother.

It wasn’t even anger, not really. Anger had its place, and he was familiar with it. Once, he felt it a lot. 

But what Stan felt—what he couldn’t shake off—was this cold, heavy sadness, like how you feel when you're wet from head to toe, dressed in layers and layers of clothes and water's in every single one. It weighed him down, he couldn't move a limb without its burden. Sadness for his mom, who had dropped life in their town just so he could pursue his tacky business in the outskirts, had come back together again and again just so they could have a father in the house. Oh, mom. I hope you don't love him anymore. I'm scared to ask you that.

What was wrong with their family? He wanted to ask, scream it to his dad's face. What had been so  irreversibly broken that Randy just had to demolish everything to start over? 

"I hope you’re okay. I know things have been hard." 

That’s all Randy had said after Stan’s attempt. But not a word about it in the months before, and after some failed tries to connect, months of radio silence followed. 

I’m doing it right this time.

It’s not like it startled him, it was just good old Randy, that man saw the world through blinders. On one side his son was falling apart, trying to himself in giggle water. On the other, his daughter grew up too fast, running ahead of her mom and little brother just to keep them from being left behind. And he didn’t see his wife, the one who supported him, always just one step behind. He shrugged her hands off his shoulders and left.

I’m doing it right this time.

But Stan had been a mess long before the alcohol, long before their home fell apart, long before this new family. Has Randy been planning this ever since seeing what has become of Stan? 

I’m doing it right this time.

Has Stan's always been expendable? A new baby can be made quickly, so if you pretend the previous two doesn't exist, you can start over as you wish and this time, hope for the best.

I’m doing it right this time.

Was it because he grew up? He got too old?  Was a child no good when they grew up?

I’m doing it right this time.

Was he not considered as a son to his dad anymore?

I’m doing it right this time.

And what's left for him now? Randy’s new son didn’t need a broken brother, neither did Shelley. If he got out of the middle, maybe—

I’m doing it right this time.

He picked up the phone again, and in a moment of immaturity and childish whim, he changed Randy's contact name. After that day, texts kept coming, getting more and more desperate as Stan kept leaving them on read.

Cartman lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “I’m doing it right this time?” he repeats, eyes furrowing into a glare at Randy's contact name on top of the message app. “Who says that?”

Stan doesn’t respond, but nods absentmindedly — he wasn’t probably not thinking at all, Stan hopes he wasn’t — and exhales the smoke from his cigarette, staring straight ahead at the empty parking lot.

“Damn,” Cartman mutters, still scrolling. “Your dad looks even crazier than he did when we were kids.”

His thumb pauses over a text. His eyes flick back and forth between the screen and Stan, a confused frown settling on his face. “Wait, you already went to Oregon.”

Stan doesn’t say anything right away, just flicks the ash off his cigarette and glances over at Cartman. He never even liked the cover-up story his mom and Mr Mackey conjured together, that he’d willingly go and spend months with the man who left their family in the dust. 

After a long silence, Cartman finally says, “You never went to Oregon.”

Stan nods slowly, taking another puff from the cigarette, “I never went to Oregon.” he says, sighing. “I was in rehab.”

“In freshman year? Or last year?”

“Uh, freshman.” Last year? What's last year got to do with anything?

Cartman blinks “Oh.” He was quiet for a second, “For the drinking?”

Stan nods again, even if it's not all. Cartman assumed rehab was for his alcohol problem—probably because that was the part of Stan’s life that everyone could see. 

But it was the fact that at fourteen, he couldn’t picture himself making it to fifteen. At fifteen, he couldn’t picture sixteen. At sixteen, he had no dreams of seventeen. And now, eighteen feels farther away than it ever has before. It feels farther away than it did when he was nine.

He’s not about to tell Cartman all that So, yeah, for the drinking.

Cartman doesn’t say anything for a while, just chewing on the inside of his cheek. Eventually, he sighs and takes another drag of his cigarette. Another silence. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, when they’re both just talking and smoking. “Well,” he says eventually, voice surprisingly neutral, “that explains a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Cartman clicks his tongue, “That’s why you were walking around like a kid out of jew blood draining sewage.” He shakes his head like it’s all making sense now, and it probably is. “Dude, everyone thought you were with your dad when you were gone for, like, what, two months?” he says, “We just thought Oregon sucked that bad.”

Not two, but five months. Stan doesn’t correct him, not like Cartman will ever know.

Stan huffs out something that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t far from it. “Tell me about it.”

“That cover story sucked ass.”

But it makes Stan laugh, a real one, because it does, smoke coming out his mouth, and doesn't stop Cartman as he keeps scrolling. 

Stan doesn't stop him, because he feels lighter just talking about Sam, for the first time in a year. He can't tell mom and Shelley about this, he just can't, and he didn't have anyone to vent to, if he told someone it would've been Josh, but Stan just didn't talk about it to anyone. He knows Cartman won't run his mouth, not when this could be an advantage over Stan, a future black-mail material - Stan’s got nothing to be afraid of in that regard.

August 19, 2012

Stan, I know I’ve been distant, and I haven’t always been the best father. I understand that you don't want to talk. It's too late for some things, I know. But Sam and Barb, they've given me a new perspective. Believe me when I say so.

Sam’s gonna be a good kid, just like his big brother.  I can’t wait for you to meet him. I keep thinking about you, son.

August 23, 2012

Hey son, just wanted to say, Sammy’s already got so much personality for a week-old baby. I know you’d like him, you always liked things that were small and adorable, and well, Sam's both! He’ll look up to you one day. I really want you to meet him. Just think about it. Let me know what you think.

I hope you’re doing okay, Stan. I’m here if you want to talk.

October 19, 2012

Happy 16th Birthday, Stan! I can’t believe it’s here already. 

Feels like just yesterday you were running around the house with my toolbox pretending to be a superhero. Now you’re sixteen. That's crazy.

I hope you’re doing okay. I know today can feel weird, especially with everything that’s happened. But I want you to know that no matter what, I’m thinking about you today. And so does Sam! We’re cutting a cake for you, it’s a blue one, I'm sure you'll be doing the same with Sharon and Shelley, so it’ll be like we’re all celebrating your birthday together!

I called your mom about the car, so don't worry about it and whatever you want. But hey, I didn't even know got a driver's permit! That's huge, son. You must've had a great teacher.

And again, happy birthday. I hope you have a good one, however you’re spending it. I’m here if you ever want to talk.

March 14, 2013

Hey, Stan. I just wanted to check in. Sam's starting to roll over now. He’s getting so big. It’s crazy. 

I keep thinking of you, when you were little. You never had a Terrible Two like most kids did at your age, you were the sweetest. But you had a phase where you were so jealous of Kyle and Kenny for having little sibling and begged for an 'Ike'. Shelley had started to pick on you, I guess you felt alone, so we went to the shelter and got Sparky. So, if Sam acts up a year later, I know the perfect solution!

He’s gonna want to meet his big brother when he gets older. I want that to happen.

April 3, 2013

Stan, I’ve been really busy lately, but Sammy's getting bigger. He’s pulling himself up now. He reminds me of you at everything he does. I keep saying 'just like Stan' whenever he does anything.

I keep thinking about how you’re doing.

Let’s work on this, Stan. Let me know when you’re ready to talk.

July 21, 2013

Stan, I get it. I understand if you’re mad at me. But understand me when I say I just can't let go of you that easily. I miss you, bud. I miss you a lot.

I want you to be a part of Sam's life. I want you to be a part of mine.

These messages, sent over the course of the very first year of Samuel Marsh’s life, continued to pile up in Stan’s phone, not replied, not deleted, though still not unread.

"Well, if anything, he sure is persistent."

"He was never good at letting things go."

"Who is good at letting anything go?"

I think I am. Stan thinks, then smiles at Cartman. Maybe not good, considering he failed to do it, but tried to. So did Ronnie and others from his peer groups over the years, "I know a few people."

“And who are these commie friends of yours?"

Stan laughs again—maybe more than he has in months. Maybe even ever. “Rehab kids.”

"Right... Addicts are famously known for being good at letting things go." Cartman rolls his eyes, then flicks his cigarette, “Why’d your folks say you were in Oregon last year, though?”

Oh yeah, that.

“That's what I was gonna ask you, too. What do you mean 'last year'?”

“Your 16th. You were gone again like, the whole week of it, and after. Because when—” Cartman sounds like he’s about to keep going, but then a noise bursts out from the back of his throat—a rough, choking kuh—and he starts coughing.

Stan pats his back. “You good?”

Cartman waves him off and clears his throat. “Yeah, fucking smoke went into my- I mean—Butters went to your place, actually. To say happy birthday or some shit. And you weren’t there. So then, Butters—Butters asked the neighbors, and they said you were in Oregon. Your mom was with Shelley, or something. I don’t really remember. Butters didn't tell us much.”

“Oh.”

Stan didn’t know that. Then again, his 16th—and everything leading up to it—was such a mess that entire months feel blank in his memory. Between Sam’s birth and Sparky’s death, his brain checked out. He hadn’t even thought about what excuse his mom had given for his absence. She must’ve said it in a hurry, or maybe the neighbors just assumed he was shipped off to Oregon again, like when he was gone for five months before.

“Sparky died a few days before,” he says finally. “My mom wanted me admitted again, actually. So I wouldn’t, you know… relapse.”

“Hm.”

“I didn’t get admitted, though. We were mostly at home, but I had some sessions. Butters must’ve come at, like, a rare time.” Stan pauses, frowning. “Why did Butters even come? We were never really close. Not then, not really.”

Cartman snorts. “Oh, well, Butters is stuck on the past more than he'd ever admit, he's also a very stubborn, very indecisive little piece of shit. He got mad you left Kenny’s birthday message asking to hang out and—”

Stan's eyebrows shoot up high in surprise. Butters got mad on Kenny’s behalf? That doesn’t sound like the wispy, nervous blonde he remembers. Stan can’t even picture it. He must’ve changed a lot, too. Grew up, and maybe a grew a backbone.

“—anyways,” Cartman continues. “We just thought you guys were, like, cool with Randy. Or at least, you were.”

“Yeah, no.” Stan mock-shudders, and shakes out his arm like he’s flinging it away. Cartman chuckles. “Fuck no,” he goes on. “None of us are. Mom doesn’t even accept child support from him. Just lets him buy stuff for us. Shelley doesn’t take anything at all, but I figured I deserved my car for keeping quiet about Sam.”

“Damn.” Cartman grimaces, “Well, you do. And sorry, about Sparky. We didn’t know.”

“Thank you.” Stan says, “It’s okay. I didn’t tell.”

Stan woke to the sound of paws shuffling against the floor. When he blinked awake, Sparky was standing beside his bed, his body trembling. His legs shook beneath him, his breathing uneven.

He sat up immediately, a sense of numbing spread through his body like a bucket of ice cold water,“Sparky?”

The dog wagged his tail, just barely, and then his legs gave out. He collapsed onto the floor with a thud.

Stan was out of bed in an instant, scrambling down beside him. He didn’t yell, didn’t panic—he knew that would only make it worse. Instead, he pressed a hand to Sparky’s side, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his ribs.

Sparky let out a soft, high-pitched whine, and it cut deeper than anything Stan had ever done to himself—hurt worse, got closer to killing him than anything.

“It’s okay, boy,” Stan murmured, stroking his fur. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Stan lay down next to Sparky, dragging the blanket down with himself, wrapping an arm around him the way he used to when he was a kid. But now, he was so much bigger, able to curl around Sparky completely. He buried his face in the soft fur of his neck, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry. They lay there together, blanket wrapped around them both.

“You were the best dog ever, best boy.” he whispered. “The best.”

Sparky made a soft noise, his tail thumping weakly against the floor. I know.

Stan pressed his forehead to Sparky’s. “I love you, boy,” he said. “I love you so much. Thank you for growing up with me.”

Sparky licked his cheek, his nose, the tears that slipped silently down. Stan tried not to sob—he knew it would only confuse and stress Sparky more. The dog let out high-pitched cries, probably wondering why he couldn’t lift his head, why his legs wouldn’t move.

Stan stayed like that for hours, whispering to him, telling him how much he loved him, how he was the best dog in the world. Sparky wagged his tail every time Stan spoke. And then, as the first orange hues of morning crept into the room, Stan whispered, “I love you, Sparky.”

Sparky wagged his tail—once, twice. Then no more.

Cartman gets up, and stretches his arms over his head, yawning. “You gonna sit out here all night, or what?”

Stan exhales one last drag before stubbing his cigarette out on the pavement. “Nah.”

They stand up, brushing off the dust from their clothes, and head back toward the motel. Cartman shoves his hands into his pockets, he looks green under the UFO neon sign. “For what it’s worth, dude… I think it’s fucked up. That he just ditched you guys and started over.”

Stan purses his lips, “…Yeah.”

Cartman nudges him with his elbow, voice lighter and playful. “But hey, at least the kid’s got some good genes.”

Stan barely glances at him, and stops walking. He stares at the floor, “You think Sam’s gonna turn out like me?”

Cartman shrugs, his expression softening for a brief moment. “I mean, sure, he could. Why not? Kids turn out like their siblings all the time. Not me, I’m not a little bitch like Scott, but you should see Ike. Kyle can bitch about him all he wants, that little shit is his clone, and they’re not even blood related. Karen’s just another Kenny, she just acts all goody two shoes so she’ll have something different from her brothers. And you’re, uh, special in your own way.” He gives Stan a teasing shrug. “Sam may have something to look forward to.”

Stan feels his throat tighten again, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks at the glowing green alien sign of the motel hanging above them, and says, voice low and open to fire, “I don’t know if I want him to turn out like me.”

“Well, I guess you are a bit too sensitive, a little cynical, self-absorbed when you wanna be, kind of a pussy—“

“Okay, dude, got it.”

“Sure sure, like I was saying, a little skinny, you know, but that can be remedied. We just need to get you on a high-protein diet—

As they head back toward the motel room, Cartman falls into step beside Stan, hands still shoved deep into his pockets. He looks over at Stan, then back at the door, his eyes narrowing like he’s remembered something. “Before we go in, I gotta ask, since your jaw's so loose right now, what do your mom and Shelley think about all this?” Cartman asks, his voice a little softer than usual.

Stan had felt the question coming. He shrugs, glancing down at his shoes. “They don’t know.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t know’?”

“They don’t know about Sam, or, the marriage,” Stan explains, the words feeling heavy. “Randy’s been texting me, but I don’t talk to Mom about it. And Shelley… I don’t think they’ve spoken without screaming at each other since he moved to Oregon. She’s not exactly a fan.”

“That’s cold.”

Stan nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Randy doesn’t want them to know.”

“He told you not to?”

“Nah, “ he says, “He knew I wouldn’t tell them. They’d be too hurt. Plus, he’s scared of Mom. And terrified of Shelley.”

Cartman scoffs. “Well, your sister is a freaking psycho.”

Stan cracks a small, dry smile. “Yeah, well, she’s not wrong.”

“Weren’t you hurt?” Cartman asks, and the unexpected sentimentality catches Stan off guard.

The Tenorman Scandal happened back when they were still friends. Stan remembers how things started: Cartman transformed every ounce of fat in his body into pure, seething rage—meticulously crafting a disturbing revenge plan against his greatest bully, Scott Tenorman Must Die, involving pubic hairs and a chili cook-off, which at the time scared Stan and Kyle quite a bit — only to get caught by his mom and grounded for weeks. He also remembers watching Scott’s true motives at messing with the fat boy get revealed with a paternity test, a divorce on the horizon, and Cartman getting taken out of class every week for some counselling.

And right now, this conversation feels eerily similar to something Cartman might’ve wanted to have with Scott, but couldn’t. Maybe they will, in time. Right now, on a way, they’re both using each other, Stan is Sam’s Scott and Sam is his…Cartman? 

Enough parallels. I’ll stop right there.

“I guess,” Stan finally says. “When I first found out, yeah. Now it’s mostly just… not knowing what to do.”

“Hm…Still, that’s fucked up your dad did all that.”

Stan exhales, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Thanks.”

They go back into the motel, the room is dimly lit by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside. Kenny has spread to more than his third of the bed, Stan’s spot long conquered, his left side now creeping dangerously into Kyle’s territory. Honestly, Kenny’s the one they should all be having DMZ discussions with, the guy knows no borders.

Cartman throws himself back on the pullout couch, not bothering to pull the blanket over himself before muttering, “Night, fag,” and turning over. Within minutes, he’s out cold, his breathing slow and deep, a snore fast approaching.

Stan doesn’t lie down right away, well, first of all, he can’t — Kenny’s all over his side. He sinks onto the foot of the bed, pulling out his phone again. The screen lights up, and his dad’s messages are still there. He re-reads some of them, probably for the fiftieth time.

Randy

Stan, I really hope you’ll come visit. Sam already loves you. We show him your photos all the time.

Sam’s first word today! It was ball! Well, more like bah, but still! Your first word was bug, did you know? I thought it was dada, but your mother was like your personal translator back then! Guess Marsh boys just love their B-words, haha.

Now that I’ve re-read my last text, I didn’t mean it like that.

He had his first meeting with a dog. Not ours, unfortunately. I’ve yet to convince Barb. Wish you were here, bud.

Stan keeps scrolling, his eyes landing on the photos Randy had sent earlier in the month .

Sam is sitting in a high chair, his chubby hands grasping at something, his mouth smeared with orange puree. He’s grinning, blue eyes bright, a little tuft of blond hair sticking up in the back. Another picture shows him reaching for the camera, pudgy fingers outstretched. Another, he's outside, looking intensely at a leaf, must be the greatest leaf ever for him to look so serious about it, eyes scrunched and all.

Stan exhales, running a hand down his face.

Randy started out as a good dad. The best, in Stan’s eyes. When he was little, Randy was his hero; the guy who taught him to skate, who let him stay up late watching monster movies, who lifted him onto his shoulders at parades, who used to be in a band for God’s sake. Stan used to follow him around like a duckling, clinging to every joke, every scrap of attention.

Somewhere along the way, it all went haywire. Randy got distracted. He got frustrated. He drank too much, yelled too loud, cared less and less. He didn’t listen when Stan was scared or sad, didn’t take him seriously when thins got bad, and cracked another cold one open. Monkey see, monkey do, Stan started rummaging through his dad's stash.

And when Randy finally broke the camel's back, he didn’t stick around to watch them throw themselves on the ground, trying to find the pieces to put back together, in the midst of the dust he left them in.

Stan wonders if it was his fault. If he’d been better, if he hadn’t been so miserable all the time, would things have been different?

Would Randy have stayed, if Stan made it easier for him to stay?

He looks back at Sam’s photos.

He does have Stan’s eyes. Cartman’s right on that, however unintentionally so. Randy and Shelley always had more similar eyes—darker, more of a steel blue than a cloudless sky. Stan’s own eyes have darkened over the years, still lighter than his dad’s and sister’s, but Sam’s eyes are the same as Stan’s in those old photos.

There's something heavy pressing on his chest, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel, what he’s allowed to feel. He should hate Sam, shouldn’t he? Hate that Randy got a second chance at being a dad when Stan just can't get a second chance with another dad, hate that Sam gets a version of Randy who’s trying, who’s better, doing it right this time. He should be angry, like Scott was when he found out about Cartman's existence, hate that his dad another woman was better than his mom.

But he isn’t.

He’s worried. About little Sam being too much like Stan, both versions of him, little and big. The thought of the blonde baby growing up, thinking things that he does, is unbearable. He hopes Sam’s more like his mother. Stan wishes everyday he was more like his own mother. 

You got my eyes, Stan thinks, but I hope you never see life like I do.

Maybe Randy really is doing better this time. Maybe Sam will get the version of their dad that Stan lost along the way. Maybe Sam won’t have to grow up wondering what he did wrong. Maybe Sam won’t have to live on the backs of a heartbroken mother and rage-fuelled sister. Maybe Sam won't be like Stan.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

After a while, he locks his phone and puts it face down on the nightstand. He lies back on the mattress, Kenny busy with his merciless siege on Kyle’s personal space, and stares at the ceiling.

The room is quiet. The night moves on. Stan can’t.

The night of Stan’s 16th Birthday, Shelley had managed to get him out of the bed and his room, didn’t ask if he wanted to go outside, just nudged him, jerked her head toward the porch, and expected him to follow, which he did, because it was Shelley.

It was cold, but not too much that made your teeth chatter continously, it was bearable. They sat on the wooden chairs, their breath fogging in the air, the night quiet as nothing surrounding their farmhouse. The other dogs—Belly, Bear, and Buffy—trotted around the yard, their paws crunching against dead leaves, snowy grass.

Stan pulled his hoodie tighter around himself and tucked his hands into the sleeves.

He really hated birthdays.

Every birthday since his tenth, something had gone wrong.

Ten. The year things changed, even if he hadn’t known why at the time. Sadness had started settling in like an unwanted houseguest, Anger had tried to kick him out, but failed, sunk in a corner, and Joy was nowhere in sight. He wouldn’t be diagnosed until much later, but that was the year the home in his head fell apart.

Twelve. His parents had split, and Randy had left for good. Stan hadn’t realized how much that would affect him until it did. The home he had outisde his head, also gone.

Fourteen. He had turned fourteen in the residential center, scars fresh and mind a blur. They had given him a cupcake, the kind with too-sweet frosting, but it had just sat untouched on the plastic tray. Josh would’ve eaten it, but Stan’s new roommate is nothing like him. Nurses and his peer group had sang him a birthday tune, and he had smiled for them. Krista had given him a small bag of paper stars she kept folding in their Afternoon time, and Leo let him borrow his book. Mom and Shelley had extra visitation for that week, and they had a pre-cut blue cake together.

Now sixteen. Sparky was gone. On top of that, Stan spent the past year watching his best friend slowly fade away. He had only then started feeling the weight of it all—after it was taken off his shoulders—and his shoulders still hunched. First birthday in his life, that he could remember, spending without Sparky.

Another reminder that things didn’t last, no matter how much you loved them and wanted by your side. 

Shelley leaned back in her chair, and exhaled, long and slow. "I know you hate birthdays.” she said eventually, like she was reading his mind. Stan let out a weak laugh. “No shit.”

“Just another day. Happens to be the one you were born.”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“Tell that to the universe. It’s gotta have something against it.”

“Well, hating it is just as much effort as loving it,” she pointed out. “Why not just… not mind it?”

“Easier said than done.”

“Maybe. But maybe you’re just used to hating it.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t have to enjoy it. Just don’t let it ruin your day.”

It started raining, and the dogs hurried back to the porch. Buffy went inside, Belly sat next to Stan’s feet and Bear lied down by Shelley. Both by their person of choice.

Shelley nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Sixteen…That’s crazy. You’re getting old.”

Stan scoffed. "You're twenty. Shut up."

Shelley reached over and ruffled his hair, laughing when he huffed and swatted her hand away.

“Still, for what it's worth. I happen to like today.” She said, and slung her arm over his shoulders.

“Makes one of us.” and she pinched his shoulder. "Ow, okay, okay."

They sat there in silence for a while. Then, softer, Shelley spoke up, squeezing his shoulder,“I’m glad you’re here.”

Makes one of us.

Stan swallowed. His throat felt tight. He nodded. Things don’t just last, Shelley, he wanted to say. But he didn’t want to go back to a residential center again.“Thanks, Shell,” Stan said instead as rain got heavier and heavier his voice catching in his throat. He tried to smile, but it faltered as his eyes wandered to the three they buried Sparky under. It's raining, buddy, I hope you aren't too cold. I wish I was there with you. His welled up. Without even realizing it, his face found its way to her shoulder, and soon he was sobbing in his sister’s arms, with Belly whining and bumping her nose against his knees.

August 16 passes without much, the first few days of the trip with nonstop moving has tired them out. So, that day, after checking out of the inn, they've explored Roswell a bit more, just hiking and wandering, and by evening, they were back on the road. Now, camped near the side of the highway leading to Arizona, Stan lays awake once more, on his back, watching the stars blink across the night sky. The desert stretches out around them, dark and quiet except for the distant hum of the highway. Kenny and Cartman are already out cold, Kyle shifts around in his place on the other end of the cargo bed.

Stan turns his phone on, the screen flashes his eyes, so he lowers the brightness.

11:48 PM

Twelve minutes left.

He hesitates. He doesn’t even know why he cares, why he feels like he should send something before the day officially ends. It’s not like his dad deserves it.

But Sam does.

After a long pause, he opens his dad’s chat, He scrolls up for a second, looking at the last photo Randy sent. Sam on a carousel, gripping the pole with his tiny hands, his mouth open in a laughing squeal. Wispy blonde hair—his mom’s, probably—and  blue eyes.

Just one birthday. That’s all he’ll have of Stan, anyways.

He exhales, then texts Randy.

Stan

happy birthday to sam

hope he had a good day

He sends it before he can overthink it, then locks his phone and shoves it under his folded jacket. Despite the late hour, it buzzes almost immediately

He doesn’t look. Instead, he stares up at the sky, feeling the cool desert air against his face, listening to the soft, steady breathing of his friends lying next to him, and waits for sleep to take over. There are soft snores coming from Kyle, this time, not Cartman- and after listening to him harmonising with the cicadas for a while, Stan falls asleep.

The day after his 16th birthday, Stan walked across town all the way to Stark’s Pond, he didn't take his mom's car. The ground was still damp from the rain the night before, air cold. His jacket wasn’t enough, a flimsy windbreaker over a lighter hoodie, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t planning on staying out long.

In his backpack were the pill bottles he’d quietly taken from the bathroom cabinet. They rattled with every step, a reminder of what was waiting for him at the end of the trail. No note, no goodbye. Fuck you Josh. You don’t know anything, druggie piece of shit.

Stan arrived at the north side of the pond. He sat down on the bench, rainwater soaking into his jeans, slipped his bacpack off and set it on the empty seat next to him. His hands were shaking, but he felt calm. It almost surprised him. Was he like his when he took the blade out just two years ago? Stan took out the only bottle of alcohol he could find in their house, a half full bottle of wine left from God knows when. No one drank anymore in his family, not his mom or Shelley, who’d never even tried beer, her friends complained about it. 

He was about to take out the pilld when he heard it — the faintest meow, weak and scratchy.

Stan froze, and for a second, he thought he imagined it. Why would he randomly imagine meowing when he was in the middle of, killing himself, but he did. But then it came again, drawling longer this time, but definitely real and coming from near.

He stood up and followed the sound, pushing through the wet undergrowth and slipping on frozen leaves. It led him to the base of a tree, and there, curled up in a soggy mess of fur and trembling limbs, was a cat. A thin, exhausted mother calico with three tiny kittens pressed against her belly.

Stan dropped to his knees without thinking. The mom cat barely reacted, too cold and too weak to be scared. The kittens mewled blindly, their bodies barely longer than his pinkie, their fur still damp from the cold.

Carefully, Stan unzipped his jacket and tucked the kittens inside, close to his chest where they could feel his warmth. He slid his arms under the mother cat and lifted her too, cradling her as gently as he could. She was so light it made his stomach twist. He hurried back to his backpack, laying it down, took his hoodie off to make a base for the cats, and then put the kittens and mother cat in there. After putting on the backpack on his front side, supporting it from the bottom so they don’t shake, he ran for the vet.

The rain started again, light at first and then heavier, soaking him through before he was even halfway back to the main road. His legs ached, his fingers were numb, but the little noises from inside his backpack kept him moving.

He reached the vet’s office just as the storm broke open fully, rain pounding down so hard it was hard to see. He sat in the waiting room, dripping water onto the vinyl floor, his hair plastered to his forehead, still clutching his backpack.

Dr Cree, surprised to see Stan so soon after Sparky’s death, immediately took them, one by one, and checked them over. They were only a few days old, the vet said. Barely a week. That would mean they were born just a day or two after Sparky died. The mother cat was put on IV, and the kittens in a box with warm water bottles wrapped in towels.

Stan sat there, soaked and shivering even with the blanket Dr Cree wrapped around him, watching the kittens wriggle and cling to each other. He wondered, just for a second, if one of them could be Sparky. If maybe, somehow, his best friend had found his way back to him. He didn’t know if that was possible — but he wanted it to be. Is there even life after death? If I died, will I be re-born as something? Would that life be any different? I’m so tired of this one, that I don’t think I'd mind living another. 

When the vet asked if he wanted to call someone, Stan shook his head yes, and called his mom to let her know where he was.

The morning drags on after stopping at yet another fast food joint for breakfast. After scrolling through Google Maps, an impromptu decision is made to visit the Very Large Array.

Stan takes a bite of his hashbrown, his attention half on the greasy food and half on the task at hand. Finally, he finds the strength to move his thumb and taps Randy's name on his phone. Kenny and Kyle are off to the bathroom, and Cartman is too busy plotting his desert order to notice. Well, not something he doesn't already knows anyway.

Randy

Stanley! Thanks for reaching out, buddy. It means a lot to me. 

To us.

Sam had a great day! We took him to the park, got him a little funfetti cake, the usual birthday stuff.

He mostly just made a mess with it, haha, let me send you a video.

[Video]

He can stand on his own now, he even walked a few steps just the other day!

You wouldn’t believe how fast he’s growing.

I really hope you’ll meet him someday. He’d love his big brother

Stan stares at the messages, his chest tight. He can picture it too clearly—a quiet house in Oregon, Sam wobbling on unsteady legs, Randy laughing, taking pictures, being the kind of dad he remembers from a long, long time ago.I really hope you’ll meet him someday. Stan won't.

His finger hovers over the screen, and clicks 'Save video to gallery' then drops his phone on the table, not looking at it anymore. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even hear Kyle and Kenny returning.

“How was the—” Cartman asks, arriving right after the two, holding a McFlurry with two spoons in it. Stan’s about to ask if it’s not enough for Cartman to eat with one spoon, why does he need two, and immediately feels stupid when Kenny reaches up without a word and grabs one.

“Mine was gold, but I thought Kyle's looked a bit sickly, in my opinion, like a pale yellow. You should get that checked, dude—”

“Kenny.”

“Fine. It was fine.” Kenny shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Go ahead."

“You see this, right? The theft? The pure entitlement?”

“You had two spoons, dude. What am I gonna do? Not take one?"

Stan grabs his backpack, and heads for the bathroom to piss, shit, and take his meds. Wash, rinse, repeat, wash, rinse, repeat, wash, rinse, repeat, wash, rinse..

Stan cared for the kittens in his room for months after that day in the woods. It had started with the flimsy cardboard box Dr Cree gave him, lined with old towels and one of his worn hoodies that already smelled like him, so they trusted him more. They were so small at first — no bigger than his palm — fragile and blind, their mews thin and desperate in the quiet of his room. They needed him, and Stan, hollowed out by grief and numb from weeks of barely existing, latched onto that like a lifeline.

Their mother cat, the thin calico Stan had found curled up on them and kept her babies warm, hadn’t made it through the night. She was too sick, too cold, near frozen, her body already giving out by the time they reached the vet. Stan sat with her until she was gone, stroking her fur gently, whispering apologies for finding them too late, assuring her that her babies are going to be okay. 

Then he took her home and buried her next to Sparky, under the same tree. 

His best friend wouldn’t mind sharing the spot. Wherever you go next, I hope it’s warm.

And the kittens — they were fighters. Hungry and loud, paws scrabbling for warmth and milk. Unlike Belly’s pups, which she had nursed herself with no problems, they had to be hand-fed.

Stan set alarms through the night to bottle-feed them, using a tiny plastic syringe at first, then the smallest bottle Dr Cree had given him. They needed feeding every two hours. It left him exhausted, but that kind of tired made him get up from the bed, prepare the kitten milk replacer, change the water of the hot-water bottles that’s gone lukewarm, and wrap them in blankets again.

Shelley helped whenever she was home, which was always every weekend, sitting cross-legged on his floor with one of the kittens curled gently in her hands. But she always made it clear that this was Stan’s project — his little rescue mission, something for him to do. It reminded him of those quiet afternoons when they had sprawled out on the floor beside Belly, freshly given birth to her two pups, pondering names. Bear Grylls and Buffy Summers, were chosen on the spot.

"Ever thought about working with animals?" She had asked one day. "You're already great with them."

"Like, a vet?"

"Sure," Shelley lifted the blonde-furred kitten into the air. The little guy’s front left leg had to be amputated due to hypothermia, though it didn’t diminish his energy or bravery one bit. He’d still ambush their feet whenever he could, so Shelley liked to call him an outlaw. "Dr. Cree would love to have you in the clinic, you know. There’s other things too. You could also be a pet groomer or work with wildlife. Something like a biologist... it’d suit you."

I don't think I want to live that long. "You think so?"

"Duh, that's why I'm saying it." She kissed the kitten's nose. "There's a vet med program over at CSU. One of my friends from community went there."

"Isn't CSU, like, in Fort Collins?"

"Yeah, but it's not like it's too far."

"I'll think about it."

"You will. I'll ask Amanda when you wanna know more."

"Sure."

His mom found the whole thing utterly endearing — especially after seeing how the kittens snuggled up in the hood of Stan's hoodie, which he started to wear in reverse, with the hood hanging from front. Just so the little ones could curl up in there, purring contentedly, while their tiny paws playfully swatted at his nose or made biscuits against his chin, making Stan smile. His mom almost declared the moment a national holiday.

The kittens grew, as they were supposed to, and turned into rowdiest tumbling fuzzballs with sharp claws and endless energy. They pounced on invisible prey, climbed his curtains, and shredded every bit of furniture they could reach, they sure reached a lot. Stan was careful not to name them, not wanting to get too attached, though Shelley had alternating names for all of them, called them something different each time, depending on what her mood, and theirs were.

He knew from the start that he couldn’t keep them. Bear, Belly, and Buffy didn’t take kindly to the smell of cats in the house. Belly cried against his door every night, her nose could be seen under the crack. Stan knew adding a cat, let alone three, would be asking for trouble.

When the kittens were old enough, Shelley and Sharon took over finding them homes. A coworker of Sharon’s took one, a neighbor’s friend another, and the last one, the smallest one, surprisingly went to Shelley last minute.

I can’t have Bear with me in that small apartment, so I’ll take this one. She had smiled at Stan, what do you think his name should be? Something to match the B’s. Because apparently, we do like our B’s. Hah, get it?

Stan had hugged her right then, Bandit meowing between them.

When he joins his friends, Cartman’s on the phone.

His phone. As in Stan’s.

Stan frowns, looking at Kyle for an answer, “Dude—what the hell?”

The redhead shrugs, mildly apologetic. “Your phone rang like three times, dude. Cartman just answered it and now he’s fighting with whoever it is.”

“Oh yeah? Say that to my face, you little bitch!” Cartman snarls into the speaker, face red, and Stan knows exactly who’s he talking to. even before he hears the faint but equally agitated voice from the phone.

“I will, Pillsbury Doughboy!” Josh yells from the other end of the line, “I’m all muscle, solid fucking brick, you gonna come at me?”

“Oh, please! I bench three plates, pussy. I'll snap you in half .”

“Three plates of what? Marshmallow fluff?”

Without a word he snatches his phone from Cartman’s tight grip, and walks away from the group.“What you want, Josh?”

“Stan, who the fuck was that? I’m coming to South Park tomorrow and beating his ass.”

“Dude. Why—“

“He’s not really 6’5 right? I’m 6’1 now, you know. He might have a couple inches on me, but I think I can snap that fucker in half — what’s he really built like? If he’s like you, Stan, I can take him, no problem. No offense, but you gotta eat more.”

“What do you want, Josh?” Stan repeats.

“Come to Boulder.”

“Dude, I told you, I’m in New Mexico.”

“What?! When?!”

“You texted me, like, yesterday.”

“Uh…”

“For Guac & Roll?”

“Ah! Right, right, right. If you say so…” Because you were high as always, stupid. Josh falls quiet for a second, then lets out a groan so long and dramatic that Stan actually pulls the phone away from his ear. “There’s no one in goddamn Boulder to hang with, man.”

“Call your friends.”

“They won’t do drugs with me…”

“And I will?”

“No, but you’re fun. You’re on the best drug there is—suicidal ideation.”

Stan scoffs. “You’re going to hell, dude.”

Josh hums. “Right by your side, man.”

Stan was about to end the call anyway when Kenny starts waving his arms and motioning for him to wrap it up, “I gotta go. Don’t call me three times in a row again.”

“Four’s the lucky clover.”

Stan rolls his eyes and hangs up, sighing as he makes his way back to the table.

“Who’s Josh?” Kyle asks as Stan takes his seat, idly twisting the napkin left over from their food. Stan glances at him, but Kyle keeps his eyes down.

He shrugs. “A friend,” he says, then risks a side-eye at Cartman. “From Oregon.”

That lands exactly where he intends. Cartman gives a knowing nod. “Well, let me know if he ever comes here from Oregon, so I can beat his mother-fucking ass. You got any pics of the guy? Talking like he's six foot or something.”

Stan shakes his head no, Josh might’ve some on his phone, but he doesn’t. 

Kyle’s eyes flicker toward Stan, “He a redhead?” he asks, voice nonchalant, ripping a tear in the napkin in his hands.

Stan’s head snaps toward him, blinking in surprise. "The hell? How’d you know?" he asks, genuinely confused. How the hell does Kyle know?

“And tall, right? Like, actually 6'0, or someting.” Kyle adds.

"He' actually 6'0?" Cartman butts in, but then looks confused just as Stan. "Wait."

Stan blinks again,  “Dude, what are you, seer or stalker?”

But before Kyle can answer, Kenny suddenly perks up, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “Oh, yeah! Tall redhead, and— and short curly!”

Stan’s eyes widen, he blinks, looking between Kyle and Kenny, utterly flabbergasted. “You guys… What the hell?”

The only time he met Josh after he got discharged, was right Josh’s second one. Stan had begrudgingly agreed to visit him after Josh had harassed him into it, tried to coerce him into bringing some celebratory drugs, whatever that means, which Stan hadn’t. When he showed up, it wasn’t just Josh waiting. There were at least three people from their peer group there, along with a handful of others, all of whom Josh had somehow managed to wrangle in. And they hadn’t even been part of the same group.

Turns out, Josh, on influence in while in treatment for addiction, had stolen a patient box file from the hospital, gone through it, texted and called up every number he could find. He’d then gaslighted them into thinking they were in the same peer group as him, convinced them to come for his release day. Josh’s success rate with this weird trick? About 15% or less. He reached out to over 75 people. Yeah, insane. Like all things Josh.

Most had bounced when they realised they didn’t actually belong there, Stan and Ronnie stayed. Josh had just latched onto them, one arm slung casually over their shoulders, refusing to let them go. They had lunch with Josh’s parents and then went to see a movie, Dark Shadows, which was pretty good. He mentioned it to Shelley later on and she took him to see it again that same weekend.

“When the fuck did you two saw thay, and I didn’t?” Cartman presses, folding his arms and frown aimed at Kyle and Kenny as they exchange a look. "And, didn't tell me afterwards."

Kenny purses his lips, “We were visiting Timmy, dude,” he says, “Like, two years ago... Before he, you know, passed away. We saw you three leaving the hospital just as Mrs. Broflovski dropped us off.”

Stan’s mind immediately starts spinning. Oh.

Timmy had passed away after complications from a difficult surgery. Stan remembers hearing about it, his mom breaking the news. She cried for days—she couldn’t bear the thought of someone his age dying.

And then there was Stan, who felt something altogether different.When the ugly green head of jealousy showed up at the door inside his head. How did Timmy get to die so easily? he had thought. The envy he felt, then the disgust— at himself for even thinking it. He still thought about it sometimes, but now that he cracked the code, thanks to Josh.

Stan didn’t even know was that Timmy had been in the same hospital, right under his nose. Suddenly, he feels the prickling feeling of shame, he didn’t even attend the funeral. 

Sorry, Timmy, Stan thinks, I didn't know, but you won't get to attend my funeral, either. I guess that makes us even.

The silence stretches a bit, then it’s cut suddenly when Kyle snaps, “Why was he in Denver Health if he's from Oregon?”

Stan freezes. He doesn’t want to answer this, doesn’t want Kyle of all people to know. He can deal with Cartman knowing—strangely enough. But Kyle? Nope. No way. Not even about the alcohol thing.

“He moved there later,” Stan answers, hoping the questions will just die there.

“Later.” Kyle repeats the word slowly, clearly not satisfied.

“Yeah,” Stan says, a little too impatient to be discreet.

“Why are you acting weird about it?” Kyle presses, his eyes narrowing. “Hiding something?”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I did,” Stan replies quickly, too quickly. “He moved there later.”

“Right.” 

“Why would I lie?”

“Why would you lie?” Kyle throws back, and here's the snark.

It brings Stan back to four years ago. And five years ago. And six. Seven. Basically, before they cut direct contact, this has been a Kyle familiar to him.

So, yes, dealing with Kyle is as impossible as it used to be. Butters may have changed and grown a meaner streak, but Kyle certainly hadn’t changed a bit. Panic creeps up Stan’s throat at being doubted, cornered, treated like Randy. A suffocating knot tightens in his chest, almost choking him, when Cartman suddenly cuts in.

“Just tell him the truth, dude.”

Stan whips his head toward him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You see, guys…” Cartman starts, and the knot in Stan’s chest hardens into a scalding rock. His throat burns with the urge to shout, to stop him, but all he can do is exhale steam.

Of course he’s selling him out right now. Of fucking course. Why would anyone ever trust Eric fucking Cart-

“Josh is Stan's ex-boyfriend."

Huh?

"We had a heart-to-heart back at the motel, and well..." Cartman shakes his head ruefully. Fatass has gotten better at acting, that's for sure. “Long story short: Stan ended things. Guy couldn't take the rejection. That's why I was so aggressive on the phone earlier—I wanted him to leave Stan alone."

He turns to Stan, claps him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome, Stan.”

Wow, Cartman.

Stan is so shocked by the sudden turn of events that he doesn't even realize Kenny and Kyle's stunned expressions until a moment later. He can only mutter a “Thanks, Cartman,” while like his brain just got hijacked, and just as stunned as the other two.

“You’re gay?!” Kenny asks, his voice sharp with surprise.

I guess I am now, Stan thinks, his brain reeling. Better than a suicidal self-harming alky, I guess. “I mean—”

“C’mon, you can tell ’em,” Cartman says, gesturing at the two. “These fags might get you better than me. Heck, I know a thing or two about relationships.”

Kenny scoffs, but Cartman waves him off. “Don’t be jealous 'cause I communicate better than you, Kenny. You’re so emotionally constipated, shit’s clogging your veins and brain matter. Fuck you. Now, Stan, tell us all about your first love Josh — how you broke his heart and stomped on the scattered pieces.”

“I guess… he made me… realize stuff about myself,” Stan says, brows knitting into a confused glare. He’s nowhere near as good a liar as Cartman. Thankfully this isn’t even a lie— just the part he’s willing to get out there. Josh did make him realize things. Just not the gay ones. 

Why the fuck are you pressing me about this? If he really was gay —which he’s not even sure of, maybe, maybe not— then fine. The last time he wanted someone at his side that badly was seven years ago, when he spent hours aching for Kyle and Wendy.

"But it's over now, so..." he trails off, hoping they'll just drop it. Just let it go, guys.

Kyle suddenly speaks up, his voice quieter than usual. “I'm sorry, dude.” Stan looks at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “I didn’t mean to press you like that. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. I’d never, you know, want to out you like that. I’m really, really sorry, Stan.”

Stan feels a lump form in his throat. How much he would’ve killed to hear those words, forever ago, at school, at the skatepark, at Stark's Pond. Now, they’re like soft rainfall on parched earth—soothing, but too late.

He gives Kyle a small smile, “It’s okay, dude. Don’t worry about it.” However, his reassurance does nothing to quell the regret and gloom on Kyle’s face. Has he always been this expressive?

“Wow, guys.” Kenny speaks up, finally, “Way to kill the mood.” but then his eyes light up. “Well, then, only one thing left to say. Happy Coming Out Day, Stan!”

Stan sat slouched on the porch, watching Sparky run after the ball he threw. He threw it again when the dog came back, and again and again. His skateboard lay still beside him. He hadn’t touched it since he came back from the park. 

There was the sound of wheels against the gravel, and Cartman rolled up on his skateboard, and without a word, dropped himself onto the curb with a grunt. "Jesus fuck, I should've just taken my bicycle." he said between breaths, "Do you know how long it took me to skate here?"

"What're you doing here?"

"Heard what happened."

"Well, you were there."

"Well, I wasn't fucking right next to you."

"And?"

"I mean, I did blackmail you into going there in the first place, so excuse me for owning up my actions."

"Hm."

“Kyle just can’t accept that you and him are no longer the same person, dude,” Cartman finally said.

"How?"

"Like, yeah, you're all cynical and shit?" he began, "But he just can't take that you're no longer rubbing his dick at everything he does, y'know."

Stan blinked slowly,“You defending him or me?”

Cartman snorted. “Neither. You two are fags. One emo and one jew.”

“That your diagnosis?”

“Yup. I’m a sadologist now, or a jerkist, or something, and you—” Cartman poked him in the arm, “are a prime case of major bummer disease. Patient fucking zero right here.”

Stan didn’t flinch, just rubbed the spot Cartman basically stabbed his finger into. “Guess I should get put down or something.”

“Nah,” Cartman said. “I said major bummer disease. Not incurable asshole disease. Maybe cynical jerk disease.”

Stan didn’t answer. His mouth twitched, though. That was enough for Cartman.

“Kyle’s a dick too, you know,” Cartman went on, stretching out his legs. “He acts like you owe him something, which is very jew of him.”

“Where'd got all that from? An advice column?”

“No. My mom watches Dr Phil. I join her, sometimes. Shut up, dude.”

They sat in silence again, next time Sparky came with his ball, Cartman took it from him and threw it himself.

“You miss him?” Cartman asked after a while, not looking at Stan.

Stan hesitated. Then, with a shrug, “Sometimes.” Sometimes I don't even have the energy to think. Then, the other times, I miss so many things that it's hard to pick one.

"Right, I keep forgetting how gay you two are for each other."

Stan let out an actual laugh this time, short and kind of ugly, he even snorted a bit. “You’re an asshole.”

Cartman smirked. “You’re welcome.” he said. "For the record, I wanted you there."

"I..." Stan looked at him, not knowing what to say. "Thanks for the blackmail, I guess."

The drive to the Very Large Array is long, flat, and relatively quiet, except Cartman and Stan.

"Turn here, fuckface," Cartman barks from the shotgun, his finger stabbing at the air to the direction they're supposed to go.

"I was gonna already, stupid," Stan mutters, keeping his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road. He’s learned by now that arguing with Cartman about directions is pointless. It’s their unspoken dance—Cartman calls out orders, Stan follows them, and somehow, they make it to their destination without killing each other.

"Yeah, sure, you were gonna turn. You were totally gonna turn, Stan. You're lucky I'm here."

Stan lets out a sigh.

They’ve got the windows down, wind roaring through the car, and for once, none of them are yelling over it. The morning's started a bit too loud with Cartman vs Josh, so it's a welcome change. The peace of all four seats in Stan's Car.

By the time they reach the site—an open plain with giant white satellite dishes scattered for miles—it feels like they’ve landed on another planet. The sheer scale of it makes them go quiet for a minute. Humans psychologically interested in large things, after all, right? Or something like that, Stan vaguely remembers reading that somewhere. Probably Facebook.

"Yo," Kenny says, eyes big in awe, "This is crazy seeing it in person."

"Weren't these in that one movie? With Jodie Foster?

“Yeah, Contact, moron.”

They park near the Visitor Center, and as soon as they walk in, the temperature drops mercifully.

The space is clean, lined with photographs, models, and big panels of text explaining the science of radio astronomy. A women greets them at the desk, handing out brochures and gently suggesting they watch the 25-minute documentary in the small screening room to the left. They sit in the back row, letting their legs sprawl across the carpeted floor. The lights dim, and the screen flickers to life with that dramatic opening line:

“Since the dawn of humankind, we’ve shared a deep communion with the stars.”

The narration is smooth, Jodie Foster’s voice weaves facts with curiosity and wonder. The boys watch in silence-- the massive dishes on screen rotating in slow, synchronized motion.

Kenny leans to him and whispers, “This is beautiful.”

Stan nods without looking over. “Yeah.”

"I wanna do this, y'know?" he whispers again, quieter, and Stan glances at him. 

"Do what?"

"This, I mean, not radio astronomy, but space." He says, looking thrilled just talking about it, "Boulder's got an aerospace engineering program. That's what I'm going for." Kenny smiles and turns back to the documentary. Stan looks at him for a while, feeling something warm and heavy at the same time in his chest. 

What do I want to do?

After the film, they file out into the mini museum portion. Kyle lingers in front of a panel on pulsars and quasars, and Cartman keeps trying to spin the knobs on an interactive model of a satellite dish. Kenny’s already halfway to the gift shop, whistling softly.

“I dunno what to get for Ike. He’ll be insufferable if I don’t bring him something.“ Kyle grabs a pouch and a space-themed stationary set, turning it over and checking its price. 

"Aren't you already getting him something?" He asks Kyle instead, "The bug, or whatever?"

"Oh shit dude," Kyle says, eyes wide and drops the set, "You're right. He's already getting something out of this. Thanks, dude."

Stan shrugs with a smile, and they join Kenny at the register, who's getting a few books, about some type of engineering Stan won't even attempt to pronounce- Cartman takes out his wallet to pay for him, "It's my early birthday and Christmas gift." Kenny says, smiling.

They follow a short trail outside from the visitor center, shoes crunching dry gravel beneath them and heads stretched to take in the huge, no very large dishes that they kept going closer to.

“Dude,” Cartman says, staring up, “this thing’s a goddamn monster.”

When they reach the base of one of them, the ground beneath their feet feels like it’s vibrating slightly. The sheer size of the antenna is overwhelming—it’s so big, sorry, very large, that the boys stand there for a second, looking up at it, all in awe.

Every minute or two, the dish shifts ever so slightly, moving in a gentle turn, realigning with some invisible point in the sky.

“Dude,” Cartman breathes. “What if this thing started talking?”

“It already is,” Kenny says, half to himself. "They talk to each other with radio signals through interferometry."

"Through what and what now?"

They keep walking. At the far end of the path, they reach the maintenance yard-- a massive hangar where one of the dishes sits on its side, half-disassembled. A sign explains how each antenna is regularly rotated out for repair and calibration. Cartman tries to convince Kenny to sneak inside the hangar. Kenny doesn't even entertain the idea.

"I'll have access to any part of the scientific community I want in 20 years, dude. We can come back and fuck with the dishes then."

Going back to the visitation center, they sit on a metal bench nearby, unwrapping the astronaut ice cream they got in there. It crunches between their teeth, turning to sugary powder almost instantly.

“Not bad.”

“Feels like eating chalk.”

”When did you ever eat chalk, Cartman. That’s my thing.”

They sit there watching the plains full of the giant radio telescopes.

“You think they’re actually hearing aliens?” Cartman asks. "Or, fucking Nazis? Like in the movie?"

“No,” Kyle says flatly.

 “Not yet.” Kenny grins, but then frowns.”I mean the aliens, dude, not fucking Hitler."

They pile back into the car, astronaut ice cream crumbs sticking to their shirts. Cartman grabs the phone, and starts co-piloting once more.

The gas station is one of those nameless, middle-of-nowhere places—just a cracked lot, a flickering fluorescent sign, and a row of pumps that look like they’ve been there since the ‘90s. Not that Stan spent much time in those times, only what, four years? Not even that many. The air smells like hot asphalt and gasoline, thick under the late afternoon sun.

Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman disappear into the store, fading behind the glass door. Stan stays behind, leaning against the car, watching the numbers on the pump tick higher. The fuel hums as it loads, steady and slow. He exhales, rubbing his hands over his face before pulling out his phone. Stan hesitates for a second, maybe a minute, might be five, before tapping on the most recent video he saved.

The video starts shaky—Randy’s voice, a loud and overjoyed “Here's the birthday boy!”—and then it focuses. Sam’s in a high chair, cake smeared across his face. He’s clapping, or at least trying to, little hands covered in blue frosting. There’s laughter in the background, a woman's, from the direction of the camera, and then Randy’s face comes into frame, grinning like an idiot as he crouches beside Sam, guiding his hands together, and they start clapping together. Father and son.

Sam's laughter somewhat eases the clasp grief has on his heart, he's a cute baby. Blonde as they come, and Marsh blue eyes.

Stan’s chest tightens. He can’t stop watching. Randy looks happy too. Like, genuinely. Like the dad Stan remembers having, from a lifetime ago, before everything went to hell.

He bites his cheek, feeling a burn in his eyes, but this time opening his Notes app. He clicks on one of the recent drafts, he starts typing. It takes him a while, but ever since he's started jotting down ideas, like it's a damn novel, it's been easier to gather all his thoughts into one complete note.

He stops, fingers hovering over the keyboard. A truck rumbles past, shaking the ground slightly. The gas pump clicks off.

Stan exhales, hits Save, just as the gas station door swings open, and Kenny calls out, “Dude, they have slushies in here. You want one?”

“Yeah,” Stan shouts back with a small smile, pushing himself off the car. “Why not? Get me some crackers too.”

"Got it!"

Sam,

I’m writing this a few days after your first ever birthday —here's hoping you have many of those. 

You’re not going to know me, not very well, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to know Shelley. I won’t talk about what kind of person I am, but she can tell you about who I was.

I won’t say dumb shit stuff like my regrets, or things I’d done differently. Because I can’t think of anything. But also because I don’t want to put unwanted thoughts into your brain. I don’t know what age you’ll be when you read this, if you read this, but your brain’s very fragile when you’re young, you know.

Some people are born like me, little dude, we’re a bit sad all the time, for no reason and every reason. There’s nothing we can do about it except be cynical jerks. Don’t be like me, alright? Here’s the steps on that:

1. Don’t drink
2. Be a good son to your mom   
3. Be a good little brother to Shelley 

Shouldn’t be too hard. I think you’re gonna be a great kid.

I’m leaving all my albums to you. They’re all gonna be vintage you know. Consider them as years of birthday gifts. As for mine, since you'll owe me 16, promise one day you'll visit my mom. I don't know why, but I think she'll like you. Funny, you don't even have a fully developed personality yet.

I hope you grow up well,

Your older brother Stan

(not if you’re reading this after you're 17)

Cartman,

Dude. I honestly wasn’t gonna write shit for you. Not just because I didn’t want to, also because I didn’t think you’d care.

I guess you’re like an onion, the more fat layers I peel, the more sides of you I discover that I didn’t know. Like Shelley, actually. Don't ever tell her this if you don't want her to haunt me in afterlife. 

Now that I'm thinking about it, you've been like a brother I didn't bother getting to know. I love you, but I don't like you kind of thing. Not saying ily, though don't get it wrong. Aside from all that, you were a great motivator for me when we were younger. Sometimes I’d go with whatever was said against you just because, mostl likely, it was where the right cause was. Thank you for being horrible when you were younger, I think that made me a better person at a time when it still counted.

After our talk in Roswell, I thought about a few things. I don’t think Sam’s existence is the thing that hurts me, just Randy’s absence and betrayal. I can’t talk for all older brothers who suddenly find out they have a secret little brother, but I never hated mine. It’s easier for the dads to skip town and harder for the people that got left. I guess we have no choice but to take it out on each other because we can't get to the runaway. You understand me? I don't see Sam as a consequence of the things Randy's done. That's not fair.

But then again, you’re not Sam, and I’m not Scott. I hope you'll be able to do things right with your older brother.

Goodbye,

Stan