Chapter Text
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STAN
MON, 21ST AUGUST, 7:00AM
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When Stan wakes up, it's a stark shock to realise it wasn't his alarm's doing for the first time in a long while. Then, it hits him, the heavy fuzz in his brain, the root cause of an ache as his head offers a dull throb.
Even before he noticed that he was at least five years behind in reading ability to everyone else, before he realised that the teachers hated him for not sitting still and not being able to process a word being said, Stan has hated school, convinced he loathes it more than anyone else in the world ever could.
Even before this summer, a turning point that he shouldn't have taken, and now he was lost down a winding, desolate road. Of all the things that have ever happened to them, he never thought that losing Kyle as his super-best-friend would be one of them. Thus, their vow (that felt more like a suicide pact) to stick out high-school side-by-side has been foiled halfway through, just when junior year was going to hit worse than a punch to the stomach.
The first day has snuck up on him, something he'd always pictured as some far-away event that would never actually happen. Only now, Stan finds himself shivering at the same bus stop, his same black hoodie and baggy, deep-blue cargo jeans thrown on and the same songs blasting through his headphones, daring the irksome buzzing in his brain or of anything around him to intervene.
Something — someone — does, of course. “Stan, hey!” Kenny jogs up, more lopsided but less unexpected of him. He beams widely, as if there's anything to smile about.
Stan pulls his headphones away, resting them on his shoulders so they cradle his neck. “Hey, dude,” he drags his lips up into a small smile, only because it’s Kenny. “‘Your summer okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Kenny shrugs indifferently, his gaze dipping for a moment, causing Stan's heart to give a long-lost pang of empathy. “Yours?”
Stan's smile becomes more genuine. “The best.”
…And the worst. He's still deciding if it can be one without the other.
Kenny frowns, because only now does Stan realise the cloudiness has reached his eyes, painstakingly palpable to the other. “Ya sure?”
“Mhm.”
A chilled breeze casts over them, not as much filtered by the trees as they'd hope. Already, the leaves have begun to drop from them before they've even had a full chance to bask in any means of sunlight. It causes the wind to blow harshly through the bristly branches, the psithurism grating Stan's ears.
Shifting from one foot to the other, Kenny glances from his worn, yellowing sneakers to Stan, then back down to them again. “So, uh, you and Kyle aren't…?”
“No.”
Even the buzzing seems to ease, but Stan suddenly finds he needs it back. The world seems to lull to a silence, Kenny shoes not even crunching into the snow as he shifts awkwardly again.
The stagnant air should be filled with his and Kyle's laughter, or Kyle's grumbling, or Kyle's…
“I- um-... I'm sorry ‘bout that,” Kenny mumbles, the sound piercing into the quiet and feeling criminal. His words dissipate into the chill of the air, his breath visible against the harsh brunt of stupid-o'clock on a Monday morning in a stupid mountain town.
“Dude, don't, it's-… it's fine,” Stan may as well grin manically, feeling the lie spinning into a spiral and into his own tangible exhale. The water vapour air lingers for a second too long. “It's been fine for a while actually.”
Kenny grins cheekily. “Has it now? Because the folded arms — ‘n’ the folded arms that are crossin’ iden'ically to the way Kyle's do — are sayin’ diff’rent.”
“Shut up, Kenny.”
“Yeah, shut up, Kinnie!”
Stan might just have to lie in the road and wait for a steamroller. He doesn't look, and he tries not to listen.
“Lovely day, isn't it, gentlemen?”
“End yourself,” Kenny grumbles, his words sounding less like a joke than he probably meant… or didn't mean. He holds his hands to his mouth, cupping them to puff air up and against his shivering fingers. “It's glorious for you. With allat body fat, you gotta whole sauna goin' on.”
“He's probably managed to trap some leftover sunshine between his fat folds,” the snow barely crunches, but it feels like the whole world shifts as Kyle now approaches. Stan has to fight noble, bloody battles to school his reaction back to nothing more than… well, yeah — nothing.
“Ay! It's not fat. I've been working out.”
“Yeah, you're really putting your heart through a lotta exercise,” Kyle snickers.
Cartman turns an impressive tomato shade. “Asshole.”
“You can't even be doin’ that at your big age — emphasis on “big” — yanno Kyle's dead right. You'll be lucky if ya see thirty.”
The bus hisses loudly, leaving Stan unable to recall its arrival down the badly paved road. As he takes a seat, backpack resting on the space next to him, he swears he can taste the gritty, loose rocks that the whole body of students feel with every of many bumps and potholes the journey consists of.
His headphones aren't left unattended for a moment longer.
— – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – — – —
Junior year is dragging, he decides as he realises he's only in period two, the teacher droning on about the curriculum from the year because the cheery, ‘welcome’ facade for the freshman is expensive when you're already running on empty.
Seriously, why had Stan been stupid enough to hope that this year would be any different? (And why had he even hoped? — That wasn't part of his MO to begin with.)
By lunchtime, he realises that this is no different from home; the fact that, by midday, he's forgotten everything that's happened before 9am again. It feels like his brain is getting the giggles over being able to take Stan's life and pull blackout curtains over randomly chosen parts.
Except it definitely chooses to keep a 4K disc of a month ago today. He tries not to stare at Kyle, who is across the entire cafeteria with Tolkien as it runs back in his head.
“...‘nd I thought that was gonna be a good thing for us.”
[...]
“What’s not getting through to you, Stan? No!”
Stan shakes his head, feeling the system crash satiably.
“What was that?” Cartman snickers, an audience that surely should be paying Stan, given his profound sense of interest.
“Dunno, a chill,” Stan rolls his eyes.
“Wouldn't know,” Cartman sings out.
“Yeah, we got the memo,” Kenny grumbles.
“No, I don't even mean — Ay! — I mean…” Cartman pauses for unsuccessful effect, speaking out the side of his mouth. Like that makes the view of his chewed up food any less disturbing, “the whole thing between him and Kahl?”
Kenny's mouth makes a soft silent “oh” sound, precipitously amused. “Yeah, cold as ice. Di’n't expect Kyle to even refuse to sit with us. He's saltier than these shitty fries.” Kenny plucks one from his tray, inspecting its pretty much raw colour before shoving it into his mouth anyway. “This ‘gotta be some sorta lover's quarrel.”
Unable to even process the words, all Stan can think is that the way Kenny is spraying crumbs everywhere would make Kyle grimace. Again, his eyes search the expanse of the cramped cafeteria, but that infamous poof of gorgeous red, curly hair is no longer anywhere to be found.
“Seriously, I know,” Cartman snickers with his mouth full. “Never thought Kyle would get pissy if he got Stan's tongue down his throat.”
Stan knows they're teasing, that they couldn't really know any better. Even so, he stands up with a jolt instead of a spring, and he trudges away, the energy to stalk off draining alongside the colour in his face.
As if not thinking about Kyle all day isn't already difficult enough, Stan has been cursed with the existence of his friends, who seem to talk about Kyle more than Stan let the guy cross his mind. And that really is making a point.
It’s gross. No one else should be allowed to mention him so much. This is why hope is a stupid concept now, invented by some cruel being who doesn't even believe in it itself — it disseminates through the body, quietly attacking its host behind the concept of adrenaline: Stan had hoped that Kyle would forget. He'd hoped that Cartman and Kenny wouldn't torment him about it.
He'd hoped that he'd forget about it.
He'd hoped that being ten would be better than being nine. Then, that eleven would be better. Twelve, thirteen, until he started to go off cake altogether, even when it wasn't his own birthday party, god forbid.
Stan has Biology after lunch. The sciences are the only classes he tolerates, Biology one he semi-likes… that's why he's taking the elective alongside AP Sports Ed, and then maybe Geography, because his indifference towards them makes him the dullest person on planet earth, but at least he knows it.
His self-awareness is almost hilariously juxtaposed when Kyle makes himself present, shoving past harshly as he enters the classroom like he knows the irony is looming over him steadily.
Of course. If Kyle wasn't in AP Bio, then instead of the class he'd be in the nurse's office, getting his head checked under the obsessive teacher's advisory. Stan remembers how they'd laughed together last year after Kyle was held back at the end of class to assure an aggressively nerve-wracked, otherwise usually chilled-out, Bio teacher that Kyle would be taking the elective.
““I'll go crazy without you there. I can't talk to a class that doesn't respond!”” Kyle quoted on their walk home, his impression so terrible but so spot-on at the same time that Stan had burst into peels of laughter. From there, it had been one of those times where Kyle couldn't stop adding to the joke, one of those days where Stan could find his jarring, obnoxious laugh again until his ribs ached.
“The way he just forgets about Wendy, just to advertise his dumb class to you!” Stan commented.
Kyle shut up, scowling for the rest of the walk.
…Why do all his thoughts seem to darken and shatter to pieces with jagged ends? Is this what happens to everything he thinks, let alone touches anymore? It was just like when he was little, when the flowers he picked seemed to wilt before they'd even fully been plucked from the ground.
Or maybe that’s another memory that had been contorted for dramatic effect.
“If you'd like to sit according to the seating chart I've projected,” the teacher instigates, snapping Stan back just enough to pretend he’s functioning on this two hours of sleep and this through-the-roof cortisol level. “And feel free to take a moment to complement my excellent graphic design.”
The Office 365 shapes, Stan notes, his recognition of the stupid stretched oval instantaneous. It's not even been changed from the default blue colour.
Not that Stan's any better, and he bares a grateful grin to the unnecessary reminder. He can't remember when hypocrisy stopped being silly, even feeling profound in this dumb instance.
Even dumber, as his mind takes a moment to process, scramble out of the denial and accept that he managed to read the chart right:
At first, it's laughable. Until he realises that he actually has to face the consequences, a stark reminder that he is actually attached to his body.
“Ha! Notice how Cartman has to take up two seats!” Kenny sings out.
“Now, now, don't let my inexperience throw Eric under the bus,” the teacher responds, an Oscar-winning ability to hold back a smirk incredibly mapping his resolve.
“Oh, no, sir. You could never make such an error, given your “excellent graphic design,”” Kenny faux-hails, raising an easy giggle out of Butters.
So, everyone's in this class, huh? And, somehow, no one has a sense of humour.
Stan feels like the rug hasn't been pulled under from him, but flipped. Its fluffy, clean comfort on the top has been replaced with a harsh, scratchy quality that scrapes layers off his skin.
Plonking his backpack onto the desk next to an already pristine, punctual Kyle, Stan tries to treat his arrival the same as he does with his other classes where he sits next to a stranger, or an acquaintance at the most. After he shoves his arm into his backpack, fishing around and finally retrieving his pen, he feels Kyle tick next to him,
Well, go on then, Kyle. Do enlighten us with a YouTube-video-length chat on all the supplies you have in your bulging pencil case, Stan thinks so vehemently he fears he says it aloud. Gratified he's managed so far, he decides he can hold off the entire class. He won't even glance at him.
…Okay, Kyle coughs into the silence as they complete the entry task, but when someone makes a sound it's an automatic response to turn to them, okay? Besides, Stan doesn't really get to see him, really; Kyle's curls drop in front of his face like loopy vines, catching the blaring school light in a way that gives it a coppery shade, more auburn than red. His nose is the only part that peaks through, the soft, aquiline feature the only thing that Stan doesn't have to visualise from memory… not that that's difficult.
No, wait…
A burning rises to Stan's cheeks, the heat metastasising through the cells and across his face. He dips his head until his nose nearly presses into the sheet, almost in submission to pray that Kyle didn't notice.
It's comfy. Sure, his back is curving even more awkwardly than his usual shitty posture provides, the desk is cold and hard even with his folded arms to pillow his cranium, but the notion itself is easing. Before he knows it, he's jolting awake while the haziness greets him, the type of disorientation that usually would take hours of diligent napping to achieve, where he'd usually be in a state of sweat-soaked clothes, body twisted to lay on the wrong side of his bed and one sock disappearing.
In this case, luck had turned a blind eye. He lifts his head, finding not even a trace of drool, not even a teacher towering dauntingly and more than likely jealous that Stan had gotten any sleep.
The teacher is supposed to care, though. Irked, Stan spares a glance over, where who should be lecturing them is currently deep in a novel he can't discern the cover of from this distance — not that he'd care; his brain would probably just complain that it was a waste of time.
From middle school, when he first discovered it, sleeping in class has been Stan's desideratum, his new best-friend because he'd also identified by then that Kyle didn't fit into that neat little box anymore. It was a constant 50-50: some teachers were decidedly way too far below their pay grade to even prod it with a 30-foot pole, while some held no shame in breaking the goddamn sound barrier to bark Stan's full legal name, jolting him into a panic that sometimes almost resulted in him shooting up and saluting with a “yes, sir!”
In high-school, however, it had gotten more difficult. For some reason, people began to care about Stan's education, or at least had remnants of energy somewhere in there to take joy in startling a disrespectful kid on a daily basis. Not that he blamed them; it's not like Stan had it in him to be embarrassed, or anything. It just grew tedious after a week.
But, now, he's fallen back into it from day fucking one.
He blames Kyle and his twistedly calming demeanor, even though now, stabbing at the keys at his laptop, Stan's sure that when it comes back into focus, the Word Doc will be titled Top Ten Ways I Can Kill Stan Marsh.
Stan should request a copy. For a friend.
Stan catches a side-eye from him, Kyle's emerald eyes glinting dangerously through his hair (it's way too fucking long… this is ridiculous).
“Decided to join us?” Kyle mutters tersely.
“No. Totally against my will, actually. What's it to ya?”
“Uh, you'd know if you hadn't been far off to fairyland when it was explained in thorough, helpful detail,” Kyle grumbles, too busy stabbing at his laptop keys again like it's the device's fault.
“Well… explain?”
“Can't, busy.”
“That's awesome(!)” Stan nods. “The loudly articulate guy happens to be stand-offish about getting the upper hand alluva sudden! That's new.”
“At least someone is learning individuality and even a hint of personality growth.”
“Yeah, Kenny, right?” Stan rolls his eyes. “‘Cuz I know there's no way we're talkin' about you right now.”
The bell screams. Maybe if Stan screams with it no one would hear the agonising irritation ripping from his throat. He's spent year after year tirelessly ensuring that he never ended on the wrong side of Kyle. Not because he's the threat he apparently thinks he is, but just because his pettiness could dart out like a stab, his sharp tongue laced with a wit that should've been given to someone less pessimistic and adamantly so. To translate, to pretty much anyone else in the world except for Kyle.
Stan swipes his pencil back into his backpack, watching Kyle collate his scattered stationary and pack it away as if his pencil case was attending a beauty pageant next period. Before Kyle shuts his laptop lid, Stan just about manages to catch a glimpse of the document.
"“Framework Plan:
- Abstract (Incl. Context and primary research)
- Hypothesis
- Variables
blah blah blah"
All that ranting, and that's all the class has covered, in the end? Although, Stan knows that Kyle practically gets off on any excuse to embed attitude into all the garbage that comes out of his mouth. By now, Stan is drowning in an ocean's worth of the polluting snipes and remarks, only having noticed when it became hard to breathe.
“It's a paired project,” Kyle grumbles from the side of his mouth without glancing his way, as if Stan would turn him to stone if he dared look. Or worse, make Kyle realise he was actually treating a fucking human being in this way. “I already gotta do one in AP Chem with Kenny, meaning I've gotta collect all the precedent research myself, on top of studying for an AP Math course checker.”
“That's nice for you,” Stan snarks.
Kyle purses his lips, a regular Kyle-mannerism that makes Stan fold cringe. “Our next class is on Wednesday. I expect you to come up with a project idea by then, because I really don't care what it is, and god forbid you're taking this elective just to come up with something ridiculous. I can't believe I'm saying this right now, but I am trusting you, Stan Marsh.”
With that, Kyle presses his satchel shut… velcro (Kyle hates velcro — he's always said it made him want to crawl under a table and cry) and sashays out of the room as if his academic pressure is a flex. He's probably imagining he's trampling all over Stan on the way out, and he swears he's watching as Kyle digs his heel into his chest, feeling a dull throb in his heart.