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It was 10 p.m. in South Park, the kind of hour where the streets went quiet and only the distant sound of a barking dog or a raccoon scuttling over trash cans reminded you that life existed outside your bedroom. Autumn had firmly settled in, bringing with it shorter days, a chilly breeze that seemed to crawl under your clothes no matter how many layers you wore, and that oddly nostalgic smell of wet leaves. The rain, which had been pounding the town for days like it had some personal vendetta against Colorado, finally let up. What lingered behind was a damp but oddly cozy kind of atmosphere, the sort of night where normal kids would curl up with hot cocoa and not worry about impending existential dread.
Kyle, unfortunately, was not one of those normal kids.
He sat at his desk, hunched over his English assignment like a detective staring down a prime suspect. It wasn’t that he hated English, far from it. But the assignments? Oh god, the assignments. His teacher seemed to have a goal to rob every student of their free time, dignity, and possibly their will to live. These weren’t just essays they were literary marathons, pages upon pages designed to suck three days of Kyle’s life into the void. Three entire days. That was three potential days of hanging out with friends, playing games, or god forbid just breathing like a normal teenage boy.
Still, Kyle had perfected the art of putting on a brave academic face. To his friends (and okay, sometimes just to himself in the mirror), he would rant about how this all would pay off once he got to college. “It’s discipline,” he’d say. “It’s training for the future.” But deep down, somewhere under the layers of determination and self-righteousness, he knew the awful truth: college would just be more of this. More papers. More deadlines. More sleepless nights staring at Microsoft Word until the blinking cursor started to mock him. It was a vicious cycle, like academic Groundhog Day, and there was no way of escaping it.
Normally, Kyle would be deep in his “study bubble” as he called it, headphones in, textbook open, losing track of time. But tonight was different. Tonight, something gnawed at the edge of his concentration.
Stan.
More specifically, a text from Stan.
After dinner, Kyle had opened his phone to see one lonely, cryptic message waiting for him. It said, simply:
“oww”
That was it. No explanation. No context. Not even a sad face emoji for flavor.
Kyle had stared at the word for far longer than was reasonable, as if “oww” was some kind of ancient riddle that could only be solved by the most dedicated of scholars. Usually, Stan’s texts were easy to interpret because, well, Stan had the subtlety of a brick. If he was drunk, he texted like he was writing a letter to Wendy personally through Kyles DMs or then rant about how unfair the world was to him. But this.. this was different.
The thing about Stan was that he had a bad habit of texting the way he talked. Which meant if he typed “oww,” he probably said “oww.” Which meant… Stan was hurt.
Of course, this wasn’t Kyle’s first rodeo with Stan’s questionable life choices. He’d seen him drunk. He’d seen him cry about Wendy approximately 347 times, (counting purely for blackmail purposes). He’d seen him get into dumb fights with strangers, trees and other inanimate objects. But what unsettled Kyle was the silence that followed. Usually, Stan’s “oww” would be followed by fifteen more texts about how his ex-girlfriend ruined his life or how animal cruelty is so normalized in today's society. Tonight though? Nothing, complete radio silence.
And that silence was dangerous, because it left Kyle alone with the worst thing imaginable: his imagination.
Kyle’s imagination wasn’t a peaceful meadow or a calm river. No, it was more like a stormy courtroom where every possible worst-case scenario was on trial, screaming for his attention. Was Stan lying in an alley somewhere? Was he in jail? Was he in a ditch? Was he stuck in a random hole? The possibilities were endless, and all of them were bad.
Kyle tapped his pencil against the desk, glaring down at his unfinished English paper. How could he possibly care about metaphors when Stan might be bleeding out somewhere, alone and drunk with no way of contacting anyone.
Eventually, Kyle surrendered to the inevitable. The English assignment sat there on his desk like some smug little demon, he could almost hear it mocking him with its half-finished paragraphs and impossible word count. With a dramatic groan, he let his forehead crash against the wood of the table. It wasn’t the first time his desk had doubled as a therapist, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.
“Stupid fuckass essay,” Kyle muttered into the grain of the wood, voice muffled and pitiful.
But if he was being honest, it wasn’t really the essay that had him spiraling tonight. No, it was Stan. Because of course it was Stan.
Kyle lifted his head and dragged his hands down his face, glaring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. Why, why, did Stan think getting drunk on a Monday night was a good idea? Mondays were for suffering through homework, or complaining about Mondays, or maybe making a cup of tea and going to bed. Mondays were not for drinking until you couldn’t tell the difference between the curb and your own foot.
And yet, here they were. Again.
Kyle wasn’t just worried about Stan’s liver and future career prospects, though.. those were absolutely circling the drain, he was also furious about how this whole ordeal inevitably dragged him into it. Because when Stan did something stupid, it wasn’t Wendy who swooped in to pick up the pieces. Oh no, Wendy had boundaries. Wendy had college prep classes and scholarship applications and an actual plan for her life. Wendy was ruthless in the best possible way: she was determined not to let anyone, not even Stan Marsh, derail her.
Kyle respected that. He really did. But God, did it also make his life harder.
He liked to think he was more selfless than that, always there for his friends, always putting their safety first. But if he was brutally honest with himself (and he hated when he was), Kyle wasn’t exactly a saint. He had his selfish streak too. Didn’t everybody? Sure, he liked helping people, but part of him also liked being the reliable one, the guy who could be counted on when everyone else gave up. It made him feel important, like he had a purpose.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the pattern. Every time Stan got blackout drunk, who was there to scoop him up off the floor, drive him home, tuck him into bed like some unwilling babysitter? Kyle. Every. Single. Time. It was practically a ritual at this point, and Stan had become spoiled rotten with the attention. Maybe Kyle’s care was the very thing enabling the cycle to continue. Maybe Stan kept drinking because deep down he knew Kyle would always be there to catch him before he hit the ground too hard.
Kyle thunked his head against the desk again.
Maybe he should be more like Wendy. Cold, practical, focused on the future. She didn’t let emotions or friendships sabotage her goals. She had a spine of steel, while Kyle.. well, Kyle’s spine apparently wobbled around anytime Stan sent him a pathetic two-word text.
But the truth, as much as Kyle wanted to deny it, was simple: he could never leave Stan behind. Not really. Not in the way Wendy had. Maybe that did make him an enabler. Maybe he was stuck in this ridiculous cycle just as much as Stan was.
Then again, Kyle thought bitterly, wasn’t it Stan’s fault too? He was the one who got drunk. He was the one who texted “oww” like a cryptic dying message. If Kyle was the enabler, then Stan was the instigator. Truly a partnership made in hell.
Kyle stared at the phone again, heart thumping with a mixture of irritation, worry, and, ugh, let’s just call it what it was... guilt. He knew he should be finishing his essay, but instead he found himself rehearsing possible responses to that one stupid word.
“Are you okay?” Too soft.
“What did you do this time?” Too mean.
“Where the hell are you?” …Way too honest.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
“Stan, answer me right now. Where are you?”
Kyle hit send, admiring the way the text balanced urgency without tipping into full Karen-mode like Randy had a habit of turning to. Not too soft, not too mean. Goldilocks would’ve been proud.
He stared down at his phone, rereading their earlier messages from the day. They’d talked about hanging out after Stan’s football practice on Wednesday. That had seemed like a safe enough plan, Kyle could keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t raid Randy’s terrifyingly large wine collection or wander into some half-baked house party filled with people who knew Stan just enough to hand him a beer but not enough to stop him from making a fool of himself.
Honestly, Kyle sometimes wondered if this was his calling. Not “doctor” or “lawyer” or “counselor", but bouncer. The sheer number of fights he’d broken up, refereed, or, let’s be real, straight-up won was impressive. He could walk into a bar tomorrow, flash his resume of “saved Stan Marsh from disaster thirteen times this semester alone,” and probably get hired on the spot. It was comforting in a grim way to know that, no matter how brutal life got, at least he wouldn’t end up on a street corner rattling a cup for change.
A gust of wind rattled his window, snapping him out of his career-daydream.
The breeze was sharp tonight, almost biting. September in South Park had a way of lying to you: the calendar said “autumn,” but the air said “enjoy your frostbite you little bitch.” Kyle thought bitterly of his thin autumn jacket, already knowing it wouldn’t survive tomorrow morning at 7 am, because apparently someone on the school board thought teenagers functioned best at a time when even the sun couldn’t be bothered to get up.
Sure, Kyle usually did fine with mornings. In fact, he could be obnoxiously productive when conditions were right. But autumn mornings? Forget it. Something about the darkness stretching longer, the creeping chill, and the avalanche of homework made him feel like dragging himself out of bed was cruel and an unusual punishment.
Winter mornings, oddly enough, were easier. He could prep like a soldier: layering sweaters, calculating snow depth, even picking socks based on wind speed. Spring was a different battle altogether, and one that required constant vigilance. His screen time report had once betrayed him, weather app ranked fourth, right after TikTok, iMessage, and solitaire. (Davíd had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.) But Kyle stood by it: knowing the forecast was survival. Weather determined everything, whether he got sick, whether he needed soup, whether he had the energy to put up with Cartman.
Summer mornings, though, that was bliss. No alarm clock necessary, just the sun dragging him into the day. No school. No deadlines. Just freedom, sweat, and the occasional heat-induced meltdown. Honestly? He’d take blistering summer any day over autumn’s mood-swinging weather roulette.
Another rush of wind pushed against his window, harsher this time. He winced at the sound of something snapping.
A branch?
Kyle frowned. He didn’t remember wind being able to snap branches. At least... not branches that big.
He stood and crept to the window, squinting into the shadows of his backyard. At first, all he saw was the familiar outline of the comically large tree in his backyard. But then his stomach dropped.
The “wind” he’d been blaming all night wasn’t wind at all.
There, halfway up the tree, was a human figure. A clumsy, swaying, definitely drunk human figure.
Fucking Stan.
Kyle’s backyard tree was being climbed.. no, conquered by Stan Marsh, who seemed determined to scale his way onto Kyle’s roof like a raccoon with a drinking problem. His sneaker slipped once, twice, before he managed to grip the bark again.
Kyle slammed his palm against his forehead.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, torn between opening the window to yell or pretending the tree had spontaneously grown a Stan-shaped fungus.
Because, of course, this was how his night would end. Not with his English essay. Not with rest. But with Stan Marsh climbing his gigantic tree with the relentless determination of a bear.
Eventually, Stan noticed Kyle.
There he was Kyle, framed perfectly in the warm glow of his bedroom lamp, standing at the window with a deadpan expression that screamed utter disbelief.
Stan’s eyes lit up like he’d just spotted Santa Claus in July. With the grace and charm only a completely trashed teenage boy could muster, he flashed a dorky, lopsided grin that managed to look both stupidly adorable and deeply concerning at the same time.
And then, instead of stopping or, heaven forbid, asking for help, Stan doubled down. He continued his heroic, wobbling ascent up the tree like he was Indiana Jones. Normally, on less catastrophic nights, Stan would have just shot Kyle a text, "hey dude open the door" or he would've at least grabbed the ladder that's right next to his bedroom window (which, by the way, had been sitting conveniently against the side of Kyle’s house for months now). But of course tonight Stan was far too gone to remember such civilized options. No, when there’s a big-ass tree practically waving at you with branches wide open, why wouldn’t you climb it like a drunk squirrel with no sense of mortality?
Kyle sighed so hard he swore it probably shortened his lifespan.
With a grimace, he shoved the window open. The cold South Park night immediately slapped him in the face, icy wind rushing into his room and undoing every ounce of warmth his heater had worked so tirelessly for.
“Dude,” Kyle whisper-shouted, gripping the windowsill like it could keep him sane. “You could’ve taken the ladder. Do you even know how dangerous that is?!”
Stan froze mid-climb, one sneaker slipping against the bark as he clung dramatically to a branch. He blinked up at Kyle, his drunken brain gears clearly grinding, struggling to manufacture a response that could both explain and justify his current tree-dwelling state.
There was a pause.. long, heavy, awkward. Kyle half-expected him to just fall.
Finally, Stan squinted at him and slurred with the utmost seriousness,
“..Ladder’s... too far?”
He pointed weakly toward the side of the house, as if the ladder had committed some kind of unforgivable betrayal by existing four whole steps out of his immediate reach.
Kyle’s eye twitched.
“Stan. It’s literally right there.”
“Yeah,” Stan nodded, gripping the branch tighter, “but like.. the tree’s right here.”
He said it like it was the most profound thing in the universe, like he’d just cracked open the mysteries of life itself.
Kyle buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God, you’re gonna die on my lawn.”
But Stan only grinned again, as if Kyle’s horror was encouragement, and kept climbing, each movement less coordinated than the last, every slip making Kyle’s heart leap into his throat.
By some miracle, divine intervention, dumb luck, or maybe the tree itself conspiring against Kyle. Stanley Marsh had actually managed it. He’d clawed his way past bark, branches, and gravity itself, delivering not one, not two, but at least six near-death experiences directly into Kyle Broflovski’s bloodstream along the way. But somehow, impossibly, he’d made it. Stan Marsh, a survivor, conqueror of trees and Kyle's worst nightmare.
Kyle stood frozen at his window, pale knuckles gripping the sill, half-expecting the final act to end with Stan splattering across his lawn. But no. Instead, the universe gave him something far worse.
Stan actually succeeded.
With the precision of a drunk toddler on stilts, Stan hauled himself onto Kyle’s roof. His clammy, shaky hand finally latched onto the frame of Kyle’s bedroom window. Kyle barely had time to back up when disaster struck.
Stan’s sneaker hit a wet patch of roof.
And that was it. That was the end of the miracle.
There was a thump, a crash, and then, like a scene from the world’s saddest slapstick comedy Stan fell through the window and into Kyle’s room. His legs flipped into the air, body folding awkwardly like a human pretzel before collapsing in a heap on Kyle’s carpet.
Kyle stared down at him, slack-jawed, his brain somewhere between a scream and a laugh. He could only watch as Stan’s drunken limbs twitched, his face still smushed against the floor.
For a long moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of Kyle’s heater whirring pitifully against the incoming cold.
Then, slowly, hesitantly Stan tilted his head up. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glazed, his hair sticking out in every direction like he’d just gone twelve rounds with Mother Nature.
“...hi,” Stan whispered, voice soft, sheepish, and damn it almost endearing.
Kyle blinked. His expression didn’t change. Equal parts disbelief, frustration, and the quiet resignation of someone who knew this was his life now.
“Hello, Stanley...” he muttered flatly, like he was greeting the bane of his very existence.
Stan gave him a wobbly grin from the floor, as if crashing headfirst into Kyle’s personal space was the most normal thing in the world.
Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit he had learned from the man himself, inhaling slowly through his teeth before crouching down beside the human disaster still crumpled on his now dirty carpet.
“Alright, up you go,” he muttered, sliding his hands under Stan’s arms and hauling him upright with the strength of a man who had done this far too many times for a sixteen-year-old.
Stan wobbled like a newborn deer, his legs jelly, his head lolling forward until it thunked against Kyle’s shoulder.
“Dude, seriously?” Kyle grumbled, half-dragging, half-balancing him. “What the hell were you thinking, climbing my tree at night? You could’ve broken your neck, or, I don’t know maybe died, Stan! Do you like giving me panic attacks? Because you’re doing a damn good job-”
His rant cut off mid-sentence.
It wasn’t the smell of beer on Stan’s breath or the way his hoodie reeked faintly of damp leaves. No. It was the dark, crusted streak on his forehead. A long, ugly gash cutting just above his eyebrow, the skin around it swollen, red, and smeared with dried blood.
Kyle froze, his stomach flipping like he’d swallowed a block of ice.
“Oh my God.” His voice cracked, all the irritation draining out at once. He reached up, brushing Stan’s matted bangs aside, his fingers trembling slightly. “Stan... what the actual fuck did you do to your head?!”
Stan blinked at him slowly, his eyes struggling to focus. “Huh?” he slurred, like Kyle had just asked him to solve calculus.
“Don’t ‘huh’ me, you’re bleeding!” Kyle snapped, panic bleeding through his words even as he tried to steady Stan with one arm. The blood was dried, yes, but the cut looked bad. Deep enough that Kyle’s brain immediately jumped to all the worst-case scenarios: concussion, infection, maybe a permanent brain damage, the list goes on.
Stan gave a lazy, lopsided smile, like the gash was no big deal. “Oh.. that. S’fine. Roof hit me back.”
Kyle’s jaw dropped. “Roof hit you back?! Stan, you have a giant open wound on your forehead, and you didn’t think to, I don’t know, text me that instead of just ‘oww’?”
Stan blinked again, as if genuinely considering the question. “...Would’ve taken too long.”
Kyle wanted to strangle him. And hug him. And maybe cry.
Instead, he grabbed his desk chair with his free hand, dragging it over so he could shove Stan into it before the idiot collapsed again.
“Sit. Don’t move. You’re not passing out on me. I swear to God, Stan, if you do, I’m calling 911, and then everyone in South Park is gonna know how you managed to almost kill yourself climbing a tree like a drunk baffoon.”
Stan slumped in the chair, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “worth it” before his head lolled to the side.
Kyle yanked open his desk drawer, pulling out the battered first-aid kit his mom insisted he keep in his room. His hands moved on autopilot, alcohol wipes, bandages, gauze while his brain screamed a steady mantra of oh my God, oh my God, he’s gonna get a concussion and die on my fucking carpet.
“Hold still,” Kyle muttered, crouching in front of Stan.
Stan flinched as the alcohol wipe grazed his forehead. “Ow!”
“Yeah, ow. That’s what happens when you climb trees and bleed all over my room dumbass.” Kyle leaned closer, scowling. “Seriously, how the hell did you even do this? You didn’t hit your head on the roof, you didn’t even get inside until you fell through my window.”
Stan’s eyes darted sideways, guilty.
“...Stanley.”
He hesitated, lips twitching like he was fighting between confessing and making up a story. Finally, with the unfiltered honesty only alcohol could drag out of him, he mumbled,
“I, uh.. may have tripped. Over a fire hydrant.”
Kyle blinked. “A fire hydrant.”
“Yeah. Bright red one.” Stan made a vague gesture with his hand, nearly poking himself in the eye. “Right in the middle of the sidewalk. Total sneak attack.”
Kyle’s jaw went slack. “You.. you fell headfirst into a fucking fire hydrant?!”
Stan nodded gravely, like he’d just survived a war. “Didn’t even see it coming.”
Kyle sat back on his heels, staring at him in stunned silence. Then, despite the panic bubbling in his chest, the words just tumbled out:
“You are possibly the dumbest person I know, after Cartman.”
Stan grinned weakly. “Yeah, but I made it to your window, didn’t I?”
Kyle groaned so loudly it could’ve woken the neighbors.
He pressed the alcohol wipe gently against the wound, watching more dried flakes of blood crumble away. The cut wasn’t deep enough for stitches thank God.. but it was still messy, and the swelling worried him.
“Jesus Christ, Stan,” Kyle muttered, softer this time. His voice cracked with something between anger and worry. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack before we even manage to graduate.”
Stan tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, still smiling like he was in on some secret joke. “Worth it if I get to see you, dude.”
Kyle froze mid-motion, wipe pressed against Stan’s forehead. His ears went red instantly.
“..You’re concussed,” he muttered sharply, yanking his hand back like Stan’s skin had burned him. “That’s the only explanation.”
But the way Stan kept smiling soft, crooked and genuine made Kyle’s stomach twist in a way he really didn’t want to think about.
Just as Kyle was about to press the gauze he retrieved from the med kit to Stan’s forehead, Stan’s clammy hand flopped up weakly to block him.
“That’s too large,” Stan slurred, blinking blearily. “Find a smaller one..”
Kyle froze, his eye twitching. “... Dude, it’s a fucking gauze, Stanley. It’s meant to be big. That’s literally the point. So it actually, you know treats the wound?”
Stan shook his head slowly, as if Kyle had just suggested something barbaric. “Get me something smaller. Like a paper towel. I dunnooo..”
Kyle groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Fucking fine.”
Tiptoeing into the hallway, he moved like a burglar in his own home, praying his parents didn’t wake up and discover Stan bleeding all over the carpet. He crept into the family bathroom, grabbed the paper towels, tape, and scissors, and scurried back to his room, every floorboard creak making his stomach lurch.
Stan was still in the chair, swaying slightly like it was a boat in open water.
Kyle ripped a chunk of paper towel, folded it, and reached for the tape.
“That’s too big of a piece of tape..” Stan murmured, his voice taking on a stubborn, almost childlike tone.
Kyle’s nostrils flared. “Stanley. If I make it smaller, it’s going to fall off during the night. You’ll bleed everywhere.”
Stan blinked at him, his face slack. Then he whispered, “Nooo. Trust me!”
Kyle was seconds away from screaming into the void. But against all rational judgment, he gave in, folding the paper towels, trimming the tape, and carefully sticking it over the gash. It looked ridiculous. Like Stan had been attacked by an arts-and-crafts project.
“There,” Kyle muttered, throwing the tape roll onto his desk with more force than necessary. “Happy? Does Doctor Marsh approve?"
Stan nodded sagely, as if he’d just made a brilliant medical breakthrough. Then, without warning, he wobbled to his feet.
Kyle’s heart jumped. “Stanley, where are you going?!”
Stan shuffled toward the door, his balance questionable at best. “To the bathroom. I need to take this off.”
Kyle’s jaw dropped. “Stanley, you can’t take it off I just put it on! You’re going to bleed everywhere!”
But Kyle’s protests were useless. In less than a minute, Stan had stumbled into the bathroom, yanked the carefully crafted paper towel bandage off his head, and before Kyle could even sprint after him, flushed it down the toilet.
Kyle stopped in the doorway, his face contorting into something between rage and despair. “GODDAMN IT, STAN! Do you even know how much paper towel that was? I put at least seven layers! SEVEN. You’re going to clog my toilet!”
Stan glanced at him sheepishly, his hand still lingering on the flush lever. “Oops..”
There was a beat. Then, with the kind of casualness that made Kyle want to scream, Stan said, "Sooo.. Can you... put it again?”
Kyle dragged his hands down his face, muttering to himself like a man on the brink. “Oh. My. God.”
Against all odds and against every ounce of his own sanity, Kyle eventually managed to get the offending bandage back onto the gash of one Stanley Marsh. It wasn’t easy. Not only did Stan keep flinching like Kyle was performing brain surgery without anesthesia, but midway through, Stan had launched into a rambling lecture about wolves.
“Y’know..” Stan slurred as Kyle tried to tape the corner down, “some wolves.. they actually carry sticks in their mouths to help their pups learn to hunt. Like... they just walk around with sticks, practicing, and teach the little ones. Isn’t that crazy dude?”
Kyle blinked, staring at him. “Stan.. I’m in AP Bio. And I have never once heard that.”
Stan grinned, pointing a wobbly finger at Kyle’s forehead. “’Cause I know things. Things they don’t teach you in school. Wolf knowledge.”
Kyle closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, and decided he’d process the phrase wolf knowledge another day.
By some miracle, the bandage stayed put this time. Stan looked ridiculous like as if Frankenstein’s monster had lost a fight with an elementary school art teacher, but at least the bleeding was under control. That was what mattered.
Eventually Kyle managed to get Stanley settled into his bed, pulling the blankets up around him as Stan wiggled like a drunk worm in a hammock. He flicked off the light, earning an immediate, dramatic groan.
“Okay now, you’re going to sleep, you got that?”
“Yeah yeah, okay jeez!!” Stanley slurred, his words coming out all jumbled and messy.
Kyle took a deep breath, trying not to lose what little patience he had left, and that’s when he noticed it, an enormous, dark bruise stretching across Stan’s arm, just below the shoulder. Somehow, in the chaos of falling through windows and flushing half his bandage, he’d completely missed it.
“Stan,” Kyle said, voice tight, “why the hell do you have a bruise that size on your arm?”
Stan paused mid-giggle, blinking at him like it wasn’t a big deal. “...Oh.. that? Uhhh.. well! It's a funny story actually!”
Kyle’s eyebrow shot up. “Stanley.”
“Okay fineee,” Stan slurred, waving his arms like invisible excuses were floating around the room. “Before the fire hydrant thing, I was walking past Skeeter’s bar, right? And I saw this guy, and I thought he was my dad’s friend…so I said hi. And then.. uh he kinda started beating me up. Not my face, just.. kicks and stuff. It was crazy!!”
Kyle stared, torn between laughing and crying. “Do you really expect me to believe some random adult decided to assault a sixteen, almost seventeen year-old at ten p.m. JUST because he said hi?”
Stan shrugged, completely unfazed. “...Well..”
Kyle groaned, flopping onto the bed, laying across from him, rubbing his face. “Of course. Of course you have a story that somehow makes this sound normal. You are literally the most accident-prone human alive.”
Stan puffed out his chest, clearly proud. “It’s a gift, Ky! Survival with style!”
Kyle blinked. “Survival with style? You’re concussed, bleeding, and now you have a bruise the size of Vermont on your arm. That’s not style, that’s just you being a reckless dickwad."
Stan waved his arm like it was no big deal. “Nah, it’s epic dude! Every wound tells a story. This one’s..‘The Night I Mistook a Stranger for my Dad’s Friend.’ Cool, right?”
Kyle groaned again, this time into his palm. “You’re impossible. And yes, it’s epic, but mostly in the ‘I’m going to end up in the ER’ kind of way.”
Stan grinned, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Worth it, though. Totally worth it.”
Kyle shook his head, letting out a long, tired sigh. He glanced at the clock. 10:45 p.m. He hadn’t done a word of his English homework, he’d almost had a heart attack, and now he was babysitting a giant baby with a bandaged head and a bruise that looked like it could be displayed in a modern art museum.
“Alright, Stan,” Kyle muttered, “sleep. Stop talking, stop moving, and for the love of God, stop inventing ways to nearly kill yourself or I swear I will kill you.”
Stan’s eyes drooped halfway closed. “...Okay.. sleep.”
Kyle tucked the blankets a little tighter around him. “..And when you wake up tomorrow, you’re telling me every detail. Every. Single. Detail.”
Stan muttered something incomprehensible but affirmative, already half-asleep, faintly smiling.
Kyle let out a shaky laugh, “I swear.. this is not how anyone should live.”
He stayed there a moment, just watching Stan settle under the blankets. The cut, the bruise, the ridiculous stunt, everything that should have made him furious or exhausted somehow melted into a quiet, impossible kind of worry. Because no matter how frustrating Stan was, Kyle knew he’d do this a thousand times over. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
“..You’re really something, you know that?” Kyle murmured, more to himself than to Stan. “Even when you’re a complete disaster.. I don’t think anyone could.. I don’t know... not care about you.”
Stan stirred, one eye half-opening, sleepy and soft. “..Yeah.. I’m not going anywhere,” he slurred quietly, like he truly meant it.
Kyle’s chest tightened, and he sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. “...Good. Because I.. I’d be really lost without you. Even if you drive me insane every single day.”
Stan shifted slightly, tilting his head like he understood perfectly. “Drive you insane? Yeah.. that’s my specialty but maybe.. I like that you let me,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed again, faint smile tugging at his lips.
Kyle blinked, heart hammering in his chest. “Yeah, you're stupid,” he said softly, almost laughing at the ridiculousness, “...and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Ever.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Kyle just let his hand hover near Stan’s arm, hovering like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he should. And Stan, in his sleepy, slurred way, didn’t move away. He just let it sit there. Close. Comfortable. The quiet trust between them was almost heavier than any words could ever be.
“Best friends,” Kyle whispered, almost to himself, “but, maybe.. just a little more than that?”
Stan hummed softly in response, a lazy, content sound that somehow felt like agreement. “Yeah... maybe,” he muttered, voice muffled against the pillow.
Kyle let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m never letting you do something this stupid again,” he said, but the tension in his voice was gone. Because even with all the chaos, all the bruises and stupid stunts, he’d follow Stan anywhere. And he knew Stan would do the same for him.
For now, that was enough. Super best friends. Messed up, but best friends nonetheless. And maybe, just maybe a little something more, something they didn’t have to say out loud to know was there.