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"I hate you.”
It’s Tolkien’s birthday, and of course he’d throw a party at his stupid farmhouse that grew quickly out of hand. Stan has drunk more tonight than he usually does at parties, but it’s been a rough few weeks, and lately the bottom of the bottle usually just means another one.
“I hate you.” Stan repeats again, vitriol in his voice.
Craig looks down at Stan from where he was watching Tweek dance on a table. “Hmm?”
And at this stupid party, he finds that he means it. More than anything he’s ever meant in his life. He hates Craig Tucker. He hates his stupid hat, he hates his ugly braces, but mostly he hates how he gets everything. Everyone knows Craig Tucker has a good relationship with his dad, with his sister, with his mom. They’re poor, but they have a home full of love, and he doesn't live on a fucking farm. He’s not forced to play a sport he hates, has friends that all like each other-
And he's in love with someone who loves him back.
He just lives a normal, regular, happy life.
How despicable
How wicked
How unfair.
At this party, after years of watching Craig get everything he wants, he finds he can't stand it.
Stan, without thinking, swings on him. Punches him right in the braces. It’s not the best punch he’s ever thrown. The bottle in his other hand fucks up his momentum, and he almost misses, but the hit lands.
“What the hell, dude?!” Craig spits, stumbling back up and wiping the blood from his cut lip onto his sleeve.
“Fuck you, Craig!”
Craig lets out a frustrated groan before swinging back, just barely missing as Stan sluggishly stumbles back.
“Dude, what is your fucking problem?”
“You’re my fucking problem!” He throws his shoulder into Craig, knocking him back with brute force, but is quickly pushed away by rough hands. He knows he’s making no sense. To Craig, he just started throwing punches. But he should know. How can he not know?
The alcohol slows him, making it too easy for Tucker to grab his shirt and pull him forward right into his fist. With a sickening crunch, he’s clocked right in the nose, falling to the ground when Craig drops him. The bottle of shitty vodka falls out of his hand and rolls into someone's foot, liquid soaking into the carpet. Craig hasn’t fought much since middle school, but it's clear his instincts as an asshole and a bully remain.
Stan fights dirty though.
With a high kick from the ground, he hits Craig in the nuts, a hard yell coming out of him. It’s satisfying. So, so, satisfying to see Craig knocked down and in pain. This is what he deserves, not friends and family and Tweek. This is what the world should be like for assholes like Craig.
But it’s not.
A crowd gathers around them, called by the sound of a fight.
He’s not sure how he forgot, not when this was half of the reason why he punched Craig. This is the only reason why Stan ended up on this side of the house. He’s here because Craig is always wherever Tweek is.
Stan only notices when it’s too late. He looks up and sees Tweek, launching himself off of the table, and straight at him. He doesn’t even say some stupid shit about “his Craig” like he would’ve done when they were kids. He just yells incoherently and throws himself down onto Stan, landing his feet directly onto his head. He’s not sure what really happens next. He thinks his head bounced against the ground when it hit. But he’s reeling, laid out on the ground, ears ringing with force. Distantly, some part of him regrets teaching Tweek how to fight all those years ago.
He blinks, and the world is fuzzy. Way fuzzier than it should be. Another blink and he sees Craig standing tall again. Blink. The two are standing around him. He knows he should get up, finish the fight he started, but his ears are ringing from Tweek’s one and only hit, and the vodka he inhaled earlier is making his stomach churn. He's already on the ground; getting up would be difficult with Tweek and Craig already on him. So he stays there, curled up as the couple sends cheap kicks to his bruised body.
This is how it was always going to end.
“Pussy.” Craig spits above him. Stan doesn’t look up. Doesn't think he can. “Come on, Babe.”
He doesn’t move as they walk away. Just lays there. It hurts to breathe. He hears groans of disappointment and chatter above him about the fight. If he were anyone else, their fight would be the talk of the school come Monday. But he’s a Marsh. And Marshes always do stupid things when they’re drunk. The people disperse. The party continues around him, giving him berth, but ignoring him nonetheless
And suddenly, there's Kyle.
“Dude, are you alright?” He can only moan in response. “Come on, dude.” Stan is lifted off the ground and carefully shouldered by his friend to help him stand. He can’t help but lean into his warmth. How could he not? It’s Kyle.
Together, they slowly make their way through the party and out the front door. Kyle lets Stan take his own pace, barely giving a glance to anyone who tries to talk to them. He focuses on carrying Stan’s weight across the street to his dad’s farm. The house creaks when they trek through the halls. Old wood they inherited when the house was purchased. The house is never silent. The bugs outside, the moving floorboards, the snoring of family members passed out in the living room.
The two creep through the house, passing his dad and Towelie on the couch, bottles of beer littering the table in front of them. There’s still a brown bottle in his dad's hand, precariously thrown over the back of the couch. Stan wonders if that's how he’ll look when he's older. He makes a note to pick up more peroxide for his hair in the morning. Sluggishly, he’s lugged up the stairs and down the hall to his bathroom where he's unceremoniously dumped onto the toilet seat. He slumps back against it. It’s nice in here. Smells less like spilled liquor and weed.
Kyle grabs the first aid kit from under the sink and kneels in front of him, dabbing at his bloody nose with a tissue. He doesn’t think it does much, but he lets him do it anyway.
“What were you thinking, man, picking a fight with Tweek and Craig like that?”
He sighs. “I don’t know”
“Seriously, dude. That was stupid, like stupid stupid.”
“I know.”
He winces as antiseptic is dabbed onto his bleeding eyebrow. He’s pretty sure he’s going to have one, if not two, black eyes in the morning.
“Were you seriously that drunk?” Kyle looks at him, disappointed, and Stan has to look away.
“I still am.” He can’t help but mutter.
“Stan,” Kyle stops to pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “you told me you were going to stop doing this. That it wasn't an issue.”
Kyle was supposed to snag a double date with Kenny tonight. They had talked about it the entirety of lunch today. At Tolkien’s party, they were going to wingman each other and get dates with two girls from the grade above who were “totally into” them. But instead Kyle is here. Hopefully Kenny’s okay by himself. Maybe Cartman will drag him into whatever business scheme he’s doing with Butters at the party.
“I tried, okay?” he doesn’t know why he does this. “I really tried, Kyle. And-” Actually, he does know why he does this. Stan’s just like this. He’s tried to change but being this was just written in his soul. Call it fate, call it destiny, whatever you call it. It’s him. Just him and who he was always going to be. “I’m sorry.”
Kyle sighs. It’s honestly sad how he soaks up Kyle’s pity like it’s love.
“Stan just- I worry about you, man.” He presses a hand to Stan’s cheek, cuffing it and moving Stan’s head around to look at the rest of his bruised face. Stan finally turns his eyes to look into Kyle’s. They aren’t focused on Stan’s, only on his face, but that’s okay because it gives Stan the chance to look closely at them. His eyes always entranced Stan. They always held this sharpness that Stan could never tell if it was derived from intelligence, or anger, or whatever, but it was just so Kyle. He could spend every day looking into them, trying to figure out what it was. Stan would make a joke about waxing poetry about them, just about his eyes, but he can’t because he has. Deep in the midst of his desk, he has a spiral bound notebook that started as a songwriting journal, but ended up being mostly about Kyle. His eyes, His freckles, the curls in his hair. The way he laughs. The way he gets so passionate about things. How he always finds a story in everything. How he takes care of Stan.
Their eyes finally meet.
“Stan, are you-”
Stan presses his lips to Kyle’s.
It’s impulsive and dumb, but it feels so right. Doing this, he forgets about his dad, and booze, and the inequality in everything, and is just filled with Kyle Kyle Kyle. Stan softens and sinks into the kiss. He only gets a second of bliss, just enough for a taste, before he’s pushed back.
“Aw, dude, weak!”
And suddenly Stan’s back in his bathroom.
“What-”
“Dude, you taste like a bar,” Kyle says, gagging. “And Wendy's not here, man, I'm Kyle. You must really be out of it.”
The taste of the cheap beer Kyle must have been drinking lingers on his lips.
“Right. Sorry.”
“I don’t think you should go back to Tolkien’s. You should go to bed.” Kyle stands and offers Stan a hand, pulling him up off the toilet. Stan offers a halfhearted “thanks” before dropping Kyle’s hand, trudging past him towards his room. His friend follows silently behind him.
He wonders if this is it. If this is the last night before Kyle realises that there’s something wrong with Stan. That he’s too fucked up. How long does he have left before Kyle notices what Stan is? Who kisses their best friend? You know, Tweek he gets. He was dealt a shitty card too, but he works so hard to get over it and live a normal life and be happy. Craig doesn’t. He just gets it all without doing anything. If people like Craig can be loved and adored, then what must Stan be to not get that same love? He’s tried so hard to be better, but since it’s not working there has to be a reason why, right?
It's just... Why can’t he even have one good thing in his life? Why can’t he just have Kyle? It would all be okay if he just had Kyle.
Stan flops face first into his bed, breathing slowly into his covers. His probably broken nose stings at the contact, but it's a nice distraction from the boy who didn’t kiss back. He feels the bed sink in next to him.
“Stan, you were really going crazy tonight. You punched Craig and thought I was Wendy. And that’s only the parts I know about! I don’t even want to think about what you did before I saw you. Are you, like, okay?”
He doesn’t think he is. But Stan can’t tell Kyle that.
Stan flips over and looks at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just drank too much.”
Kyle laughs. “When don’t you.”
“Haha. Yeah.”
He did drink more before. A lot. Pretty regularly. He’d party in the evening on weekends, then during the day on weekends. Then after school. Pretty soon he was waking up still drunk. But right now, Stan was actually having a pretty good streak of sobriety. He looked at his family and his life and said “I don’t want this.” Kenny had even mentioned it, said he was proud of him. They both knew from experience what shit like that could do to someone. But then one day while watching Tweek and Craig play footsie in the middle of class, holding hands everytime the teacher looked away, something just clicked. Now the bottom drawer of his dresser is full of all the bottles of liquor his dad gives him. The alcohol doesn’t even seem to help anymore, not like it did in the beginning. If anything, it made things worse. Still, every night he thinks that maybe this time will be different and he'll feel okay for just a minute. And if he doesn’t, then at least he can have a peaceful blank space in his mind.
Stan just wants life to feel fair. It doesn’t need to be easy; just fair.
“You should probably go back to the party,” Stan says quietly.
“Are you sure? I don’t know, man.”
Kyle’s a good friend. Stan’s pretty sure he’s in love with him.
Stan sits up and looks at him, plastering a reassuring smile on his face. “I’m sure, Kyle. Look I’m sobering up already.”
“Yeah, well, getting punched by Tweek will probably do that.”
Stan laughs. “That’s probably what it was.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be alright? You’re not going to die in your sleep or whatever?”
“I’ve got a popcorn bowl to puke in and Randy Marsh’s genes. I’ll survive the night.”
Kyle stands. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
Stan leans back and closes his eyes. “I’m sure. Tell Kenny I said sorry for stealing his wingman.”
“We all know Kenny doesn’t need a wingman.”
“Nope. Just you.”
Kyle laughs. “Shut up, dude!”
“Tell me all about your date tomorrow.”
“I will. See ya, Stan.”
“Bye, Kyle.”
Stan doesn’t look when Kyle leaves, just listens to the soft click of the door. He keeps his eyes closed and sits in the silence of his room. Does he look like him right now? Sprawled drunk across his bed? Was this how it started for him, or was Stan already him? Was there ever even a chance of saving Stan from this?
God.
Stan sits up. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. He walks out his door and back into the hall. He doesn’t bother to soften his steps as he goes down the stairs and pass the living room and into the kitchen.
He opens the fridge and grabs a beer.
Fuck Craig Tucker for not knowing what he has.
Fuck Randy Marsh for cursing him from the start.
Fuck the whole god damn world for showing him all the things he will never get.
Fuck himself for becoming everything he never wanted to be.
With a click and the hiss of carbonation, drenched in the sterile light of the open fridge, Stan throws the beer back.
He wishes Kyle were still here.