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Kenny knows it's a little fucked up that his best friend can drink with the best of them, despite being 14. He doesn't like throwing the word ‘alcoholic’ around, especially not in front of Stan, who always makes a face that's halfway between shame and fear.
It's not the wrong word, however, when Stan can't make it through 1st period without a drink.
He brushes a hand through Stan's greasy hair, trying not to make a face at the gross feeling. There's vomit on Stan's coat, regurgitated food threatening to drip onto his ripped pants. Kenny unbuttons it carefully, pulling it off his friend's shoulders and dumping it in the corner of the stall.
Stan whimpers pathetically, and Kenny presses himself against Stan's side in some sort of weak impersonation of a hug. “It's okay, man. I'm here.”
He feels Stan lean into him even more, his breath hot and sticky against the bare skin of Kenny's neck as he shakily whispers, “I wanna leave.”
“I know, I know.” Kenny rubs a (hopefully) soothing hand up and down Stan's back. “I've texted Kyle, buddy. He'll be here soon. He's telling the nurse you're sick.”
Stan nods, his head heavy on Kenny's shoulder. “He's gon' be so pissed at me.”
Kenny rests his chin on the crown of Stan's head, feeling his shoulders sag under the weight of almost 15 years.
“I don't think so.”
He doesn't really know what Kyle's gonna be. Kyle's funny like that. Patient as Mother Teresa or already filled with rage before you even start talking.
He rarely gets angry with Stan when he's like this, though.
It's hard to feel anything other than pity when Stan's like this.
Kenny thinks back to over a decade ago, to Pre-K, when a 4 year old Stan had shared his red and orange crayons and nervously asked if Kenny wanted to be friends.
14 year old Stan, the Stan of right now, leans forward and pukes acid bile and whatever alcohol he's smuggled to poison himself with into the toilet bowl.
Kenny rubs between Stan's shoulder blades until he stops heaving, wiping his mouth carefully with the sleeve of his parka. Stan pushes him back, something apologetic and embarrassed in his face.
“Sorry. Sorry. God, man, I'm sorry-”
Kenny shushes him gently. “Don't worry about it, dude. It's okay.”
“No, it's not,” Stan crumples onto the tiled floor next to the toilet bowl, misery clear in his eyes. “I want my mom.”
Stan's mom has been a sensitive topic. Since she died, it's anyone's guess how Stan will react if it's breached. Some days all he wants to do is talk about her, and others the mere mention of Sharon Marsh is enough to make him hysterical for hours.
Kenny pulls Stan up to sit against his chest and doesn't say anything when he starts to cry softly into his coat.
They're both quiet for a while after that.
“Hey, Ken?” Stan's voice is small, empty. He only calls Kenny ‘Ken’ when he's gotten really drunk. Kenny hates it.
He takes a big breath through his nose. “Yeah, Stan the man?”
His attempt to lighten the stale mood falls flat. Stan just sighs, his forehead pressed against Kenny's collarbone, his breath hot against Kenny's skin. The scent of vomit and cheap beer wafts up from where his head is resting on Kenny's chest. Blond hair that used to be black until a few months ago tickles Kenny's chin.
“I'm so tired. I wish my mom...I wanna be with my mom.”
Stan is always horrifyingly honest when he's drunk. Kenny doesn't want to hear this.
“I don't wanna g-go back to that house.”
Kenny clutches Stan's head in his hands, a vague, hysterical thought in the back of his mind of that one painting of the guy holding that other guy that's bleeding from the head.
“You're so fucked up,” he whispers, but his heart aches for Stan all the same. “Please don't...please, Stanley.” Kenny presses his cheek to the other boy's hair, feeling all kinds of useless. “...I love you, dude. I love you. Don't leave. Don't…just don't.”
Stan's hands come up to grip Kenny's wrists, not pulling him off or squeezing for comfort, just…holding. It's placating. It's resigned. It's terrifying.
He doesn't say anything. Kenny feels his hysteria climb.
“Don't kill yourself. Don't- Stan. Stanley. You can't kill yourself. Shit, dude-” Kenny cuts himself off, wrenching his friend's head out of his neck. He holds Stan's face in between his palms, untrimmed fingernails pressing harsh divots into the other boy's cheeks.
Stan's eyes are dead, passive pools of blue, grief and vacant finality swirling. Kenny's heart is in his throat, every beat pulsing sickeningly against his windpipe. He swallows it down and shoves it back into his chest cavity before it falls out of his mouth. His jaw opens and he lets words spill past his teeth instead.
“Don't leave me alone in this fuckin’ town, man. You can't do that to me. Or Kyle, or Wendy. Or-or Marj and Cartman. Or…Craig and Trish and your aunt and uncle, and Tweek. Tolkien. And Clyde, and Timmy. Bebe and Nicole. And Shelley? You-you can't leave your sister alone with your d-dad, Stanley, you know you can't do that, so you can't kill yourself. Please.”
Kenny's manipulating him; Kyle would be pissed at him for it; he’s pissed at himself for it, but he's freaking out majorly and he doesn't know what else to do. He feels so gross. He doesn't want to be sitting in this shitty bathroom stall anymore, holding up one of his best friends and trying to convince him to stay alive.
He pulls his oldest friend back into a hug, as if his skinny arms could protect him from all of life's hardships. It takes a beat, but Stan hugs him back.
“I'm not gonna kill myself, Kenny.”
Stan mumbles it into Kenny's shoulder and he's lying. Kenny's known him for longer than he's known himself, he can tell when Stan's lying.
Stan said he wouldn't kill himself and it was a lie. Kenny feels his own nausea rise. Stan's lying.
He pulls back, staring into Stan's pale face. His expression must look wretched, because Stan softens slightly.
“Dude. I'm serious. I'm not gonna kill myself. Calm down. Jesus.”
Kenny grips the other boy's shoulders harshly, giving Stan a careful shake.
“I'm serious. Promise me, Stan. Promise me.”
Stan swallows, the deception already rotten and sticking in his throat.
“I promise.”
Kenny's brow crinkles and he has to fight not to yell or cry or vomit.
“You're lying. Stop lying!”
He shoves Stan away from him, whose mouth tightens at being caught out. He has a terrible poker face, and an even worse one when he's been drinking.
“I am not! F-fuck you, Ken. I wouldn't lie about that.”
Kenny drags his hands through his hair roughly, grinding his teeth against fear that bleeds into frustration.
“Yes, you would! You lie about fucking everything, dude! Why wouldn't you lie about this? I'd be more surprised if you told the truth, Stan.”
Stan fights Kenny's fire with his own, a drunken rage slurring his voice.
“That's- ugh, coming from you, M-mister ‘I won't tell anyone my dad abandoned my family until he's already been gone an entire month’!”
Kenny's shoulders rise in anger, and he curls his hands into fists, digging crescent moons into his palms.
“I don't think you want to start talking about dads, Stan. Because you're looking a whole lot like yours right now.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, while Stan reels back like he's been slapped. His already pale face goes a shade lighter, and he twists around to vomit again. Kenny follows, to comfort him or apologise or yell, he doesn't know, but Stan throws his arm out, catching Kenny in the face.
“Fuck you, Kenny! Rea- ugh, really f-fuck you!” he chokes out in between the brutal mix of gagging and sobbing he's doing. “Go away, leave me alone!”
Kenny shuffles back to sit against the stall door, clutching his nose. Stan's gross jacket rests beside him, the black/blond-haired boy's spew crusting and drying on the front.
He stares as Stan heaves, remorse and indignation squeezing his insides.
Blood drips between his fingers as he watches Stan cry into the toilet bowl, and tears prick his own eyes. He's not sure if it's from the throbbing pain in his nose or the heavy guilt festering in his chest.
“I'm not like my dad! Kenny, I'm not, you can't-” Stan cuts himself off with a painful sounding retch. He coughs and keeps talking. “Fuck y-you, Kenny. Don't- shit. Don't fucking say shit like…don't say that, man.”
Wiping a hand over his eyes, Kenny pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them.
“I'm sorry. You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” He mumbles, feeling unmoored and sad and really, really young.
Stan's spine arches into an unnerving curve as he pukes, and Kenny can see the ridges of his friend's vertebrae through his t-shirt. His face twists in sympathy and a tiny bit of shame, and he looks away.
“Sorry.”
For a few minutes, the only sound in the stall is Stan spewing. He eventually gets it all out of his system, resting his forehead on the rim of the toilet bowl.
“It's fine. I'm sorry too. I…I shouldn't have brought up your dad. That was shitty of me. Sorry.” Stan's voice is heavy in the way it always is when he's apologising for something, weighted down by guilt and shame and grief and emotions.
Kenny shrugs, looking down at his parka. There's little drops of blood on the front.
“It's okay.”
“No, it's not.” Stan shuffles onto his knees, reaching up to flush the toilet. “I'm sorry, Kenny. I really am sorry. I've been such a bad friend lately, and it's not okay. I'll be better, I promise.”
Kenny takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the stinging in his nose. He pushes himself up to stand and tries to shake out the weird feeling in his chest.
He unlocks the stall door and opens it; and he doesn't look back at Stan as he licks the blood from his top lip and walks away.
“I'm gonna go find Kyle.”
“Kenny? Man, I'm sorry, wait-”
Kenny knows that they're probably not ever going to talk about whatever just happened, and he's okay with that. He's going to bring Kyle in and Stan's going to forget everything he said to Kenny and everything Kenny said to him. It's fine.
He drags his sleeve across his face, smearing deep red onto the orange puffer-fabric. At least he got out before Stan could see the blood. That probably would have set off another round of spewing that neither of the boys wanted.
And if Stan had realised that he had caused it, that he had hit Kenny, hit him hard enough to bleed-
Kenny keeps walking. He needs to find Kyle.