Chapter Text
Math class felt like punishment. Not just boring, not just hard—actual CIA-level torture. If anyone wanted to get secrets out of Stan, they didn’t need bright lights or waterboarding. They just had to sit him down in Algebra II with Mr. Garrison at 8:30 in the morning, and within ten minutes he’d confess to anything.
The clock ticked on the wall, each second dragging like it was deliberately mocking them. Tick. Tick. Tick. The kind of tick that stretched into your skull until you wanted to scream.
Stan slouched lower in his chair. His chin balanced on his arm, and his other hand limply held a pencil like he might write something, but his notebook page told a different story. No notes, no equations. Just doodles. Bad doodles. Stick figures holding footballs. A mountain that looked like a triangle with mange. And what was supposed to be a dog but had morphed into something between a chicken nugget with legs and a melted snowman.
He stared at it, then sighed, scribbling a giant black cloud over the dog-thing until it disappeared.
He yawned so hard his jaw cracked. His eyes watered, and he tried to blink them clear. Maybe, maybe staying up until three in the morning hadn’t been the smartest plan. But it wasn’t totally his fault. How was he supposed to log off when he and Kenny were finally on a win streak in Call of Duty? And then when they lost, what was he gonna do—go to bed mad? No, he’d flipped channels until he ended up watching a rerun of a game show where people screamed about refrigerators.
His mom would kill him if she knew, but honestly, who cared. He wasn’t gonna use algebra in his life anyway. He couldn’t imagine a single scenario where he’d thank God he knew how to solve for x.
“Alright, class.” Mr. Garrison’s nasal voice cut through the silence. He turned back to the board, scribbling with a squeaky marker. The sound grated, like a balloon squeal against glass. Stan winced. “Let’s see who can solve this one.”
Stan lifted his head just enough to squint. What Mr. Garrison had written looked less like math and more like a crime scene. A jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols that had no business existing together. He swore there was a little smiley face hiding in there, just to mess with him.
The room groaned as a collective.
“Clyde,” Mr. Garrison barked.
Clyde jumped like he’d been shot. He straightened, eyes darting between the board and his blank paper. “Uh…” He squinted harder, as if that would help. “Uh… four?”
The class burst into laughter. Clyde went red.
“Wrong,” Mr. Garrison snapped, his marker tapping the board. “Token?”
Token didn’t even look up from his notebook, where he was drawing cleaner lines than Stan ever could. “Nope.”
Mr. Garrison threw his free hand in the air. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Wendy?”
Heads swiveled automatically. If anyone could rescue them, it was Wendy Testaburger.
Wendy narrowed her eyes at the problem. Her pencil tapped against her lip, and for a second Stan thought she had it. Then she sighed, setting the pencil down. “I don’t know this one, Mr. Garrison.”
A ripple of relief went through the room. If Wendy didn’t know, then nobody else had a chance.
Craig’s monotone cut in from the back. “Guess we’ll all just fail then.”
“Shut up, Craig!” Mr. Garrison snapped. “Eric?”
Cartman leaned back in his chair, smirk already plastered on his face. “Easy. The answer is… sixty-nine.”
The room exploded. Some kids doubled over laughing, Clyde smacked his desk, and even Stan snorted loud enough to choke.
“Eric, this isn’t Family Feud!” Mr. Garrison shouted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wrong!”
Cartman spread his hands. “What? That’s the answer to everything, and you know it.”
“Oh my god you dumb high schoolers.” Mr. Garrison groaned
While the laughter died down, Stan noticed the shift in the room. Everyone already knew what was coming next. Slowly, all eyes slid toward the kid who actually would know.
Kyle Broflovski.
He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t even smirking. Kyle’s pencil tapped against his desk in thought, eyes glued to the equation like it was a code that needed cracking. He was already scribbling notes, flipping his pencil around as he wrote. Focused. Calm. Totally in the zone.
Stan blinked, watching him. Kyle had that look again—the one where you could practically see the gears in his brain turning.
“Kyle?” Mr. Garrison said, like he already knew the answer.
Kyle adjusted his hat with one hand, raised the other, and cleared his throat.
“Go ahead, Kyle,” Mr. Garrison said immediately, like he’d been waiting for it.
“So, first you simplify both sides, then divide to isolate the variable…” Kyle didn’t hesitate. He launched into an explanation that sounded like pure gibberish to Stan—letters, fractions, squiggly lines, something about factoring. His pencil scratched across the paper as he drew arrows, boxed numbers, and underlined terms.
Stan stared.
Not at the board. Not at the problem. At Kyle.
The sunlight slanted through the blinds just right, hitting Kyle’s face like it had been staged. His freckles stood out in little constellations across his cheeks. His curls caught the light in a way that made them look stupidly soft, like the kind of thing shampoo commercials pretended was possible. His green eyes—God, his eyes—narrowed with concentration, sharp and focused, like he was staring down a dragon instead of a math problem.
Stan realized his mouth was slightly open. He snapped it shut and gripped his pencil tight enough to snap it in half.
What the hell, he thought. Since when was Kyle…
Kyle kept going, voice steady and confident. He wasn’t showing off, not exactly, but there was something in the way he spoke that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. He finished his explanation with a neat little “...so the final answer is negative three-fourths.”
Silence. Then—
“Correct!” Mr. Garrison’s voice practically cracked with relief. “Thank you, Kyle. See, class? It’s not that hard if you actually pay attention once in a while.”
The class clapped loudly, and were shouting like they just won the nationals. One even shouted 'Hooray for Kyle!" like it's their first time witnessing Kyle's intelligence.
Cartman muttered loud enough for half the room to hear, “Pfft. Probably just a lucky guess.”
Kyle shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Yeah, because guessing your way through a five-step equation makes so much sense, fatass.”
Cartman’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?! That is a hate crime!”
“Shut up, Cartman,” half the class groaned in unison.
But Stan wasn’t laughing this time. He was too busy drowning in whatever the hell was happening to his brain. He’d seen Kyle a million times before—eating cafeteria pizza, yelling at Cartman, playing basketball in his driveway—but for some reason this felt… different. Like his best friend had secretly been upgraded overnight into someone drop-dead gorgeous, and nobody had bothered to tell him.
His stomach flipped. He didn’t even hear half the clapping. His ears buzzed.
What the hell’s wrong with me? he thought, panic rising. It’s just Kyle. It’s Kyle. He’s always looked like that. He’s always—
“Yo, Stan,” Cartman hissed, elbowing him hard enough to make his desk squeak.
Stan jerked upright. “Huh? What?”
“What do you wanna do after school? I was thinking we prank Butters again. Or maybe we—”
“Shut up, Cartman,” Stan muttered. His voice came out sharper than he meant.
Cartman gasped like someone had slapped him. “Oh my God. So cruel! So heartless! And for what?!”
Stan rubbed his face. “You’re never nice to me on a Tuesday. You have something up your sleeve so spit it out!”
They started whisper-bickering, voices low but heated.
“Yes I am!” Cartman shot back.
“No, you’re not!” Stan snapped.
“Name one time I wasn’t nice on a Tuesday.”
“Every Tuesday ever, fatass!”
“Don’t call me fat, you—”
“Eric Cartman! Stan Marsh!” Mr. Garrison’s voice cut through the room like a buzzsaw. His marker slammed against the board. “Detention! Right now!”
The class oooh’d like they were in second grade again.
Cartman threw his arms up. “What?! Me too? That’s so unfair! He started it!”
Stan groaned, shoving his notebook into his bag. “You were literally breathing at me.”
They shuffled toward the door, still bickering under their breath. Cartman muttering curses, Stan calling him a fatass, the usual routine.
But right before stepping out, Stan glanced back, totally not because he wanted to confirm what he saw earlier and it wasn’t just ‘the trick of light’
Kyle was looking at him. Not annoyed. Not judgmental. Just… smiling. Small, soft, and stupidly warm. His green eyes caught the light again, like a forest in the sunset.
Stan’s heart lurched into his throat. He whipped his head forward so fast he nearly slammed into Cartman.
“Watch it, dumbass!” Cartman barked.
“Shut up, fatass!” Stan barked back, a little too loud, a little too flustered.
The class laughed as the two of them stomped out, but Stan didn’t hear much of it. His brain was still stuck on the freckles, the curls, the eyes, the smile—
And he had no idea what the hell to do about it
--
The detention room smelled like pencil shavings and despair. It was tucked at the end of the hallway, with fluorescent lights that made the place feel like some kind of low-budget horror movie. The desks were old and scratched up with carvings like “Butters was here : )” and “Cartman sucks”—though Stan was pretty sure Cartman had carved that one himself just to frame Kyle.
Mr. Mackey sat at the front, shuffling papers like he was actually doing work. “Alright, boys,” he said in his usual nasal drone, “you’re here because you couldn’t keep your mouths shut in class, m’kay? So now you’ll sit here, quietly, and reflect on your choices. No talking, no phones, and definitely no—” he squinted, “—throwing things at each other. M’kay?”
Cartman raised his hand immediately.
“Yes, Eric?”
“This is a violation of my rights as a student and an American citizen, m’kay.”
Mr. Mackey sighed so hard his glasses fogged up. “Just sit down, Eric. M’kay?”
Stan dropped into the desk beside the window, groaning. Cartman plopped into the seat right behind him, which meant Stan could practically feel his hot Cheeto breath on the back of his neck.
For the first five minutes, it was quiet. Stan tapped his pencil against the desk, staring out the window. The sunlight hit the grass outside, and all he could think about was how it had looked on Kyle’s hair. Stupid curls, glowing like some kind of shampoo commercial. His brain replayed Kyle’s smile over and over, until he had to press his palms to his cheeks because—God dammit, why was he blushing in detention?
Behind him, Cartman cleared his throat obnoxiously.
Stan sighed. “What?”
“You were totally staring at him,” Cartman said. His voice had that smug edge like he’d been waiting all day to drop this bomb.
Stan froze. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Kyle. Don’t play dumb, dude. You were staring at him like you were about to ask him to prom.”
Stan whipped around in his seat. “Shut up, fatass! I was not!”
“Ooooh, denial.” Cartman grinned like the Grinch. “Classic sign of a crush.”
Mr. Mackey looked up from his papers. “Boys, quiet, m’kay.”
Stan turned back around, glaring at his desk, but his face was burning.
Cartman leaned forward, whispering, “You’re blushing, Marsh. Kyle would find that adorable.”
“Say one more word and I’ll jam this pencil into your eye,” Stan muttered.
“Romantic violence. Even better.”
Stan groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He could not, could not, let Cartman see how right he was. Because the truth was, yeah—maybe he had been staring a little too long. Maybe he had noticed Kyle’s freckles, his hair, his stupid smile. But admitting that out loud? To Cartman of all people? He’d rather die.
Cartman, of course, was not letting it go. “So what’s the plan? You gonna, like, write him a love letter? Slip it into his locker? Maybe some chocolates, huh?”
Stan whipped around again. “Do you ever shut up?”
“No. And don’t change the subject, Marsh. Your little ginger boyfriend is waiting for you.”
“Cartman, for the love of God, he’s my best friend!”
“Best friend, soulmate, future husband, whatever you wanna call it.” Cartman smirked. “I’m just sayin’, when you two finally make out behind the bleachers, I better get cash for calling it first.”
Stan’s head hit the desk with a thunk. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”
Mr. Mackey tapped his pen. “Stanley, please don’t bang your head on the desk, m’kay. These are taxpayer-funded desks.”
Cartman leaned back, arms folded smugly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Mackey. He’s just overwhelmed by his raging hormones.”
Stan sat up, glaring. “I swear, Cartman, if you don’t shut up, I’ll—”
The door creaked open, cutting him off. Both boys looked up.
And there, standing in the doorway, was Kyle.
“Mr. Mackey?” Kyle asked, clutching a stack of books. “Mr. Garrison wanted me to drop these off.”
Stan froze. He could feel his entire soul trying to escape his body.
Kyle walked in, setting the books on Mackey’s desk. His curls bounced with every step. His green eyes flicked around the room, and for one horrifying moment—they landed right on Stan.
“Hey, dude,” Kyle said casually. “Detention again ‘cause of Cartman?”
Stan’s throat closed up. “Uh—uh, yeah. Y’know. Cartman.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “He started it.”
“I did not!” Cartman protested instantly. “This one was all you, Marsh!”
Kyle rolled his eyes, smirking. “Figures.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and gave Stan one of those easy smiles—soft, familiar, and way too distracting.
Stan felt his stomach flip for the millionth time that day. “Yeah, uh… guess I’ll, um, see you later?”
Kyle tilted his head. “Yeah. Later.”
And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Silence.
Cartman leaned forward slowly. “Sooooo…”
Stan lunged at Cartman and they started fighting like dogs.