Archive of Our Own

“Will that be all for you today?”

Stan had to blink once, twice before he even registered the cashier speaking to him. He offered her a quick nod before quickly retorting he’d like to pay by card. The cashier signaled him the payment terminal was ready and he pressed the debit card to it, then he scooped up his sparse groceries and bolted out of there. He only muttered a goodbye to the cashier.

This was the first time in two weeks he had gone out of his apartment. Stan had basically a shortage of everything in the apartment and had he not had plans he would have to do a huge grocery shopping. Since he was spared the grand shopping Stan bought himself only a bottle of whiskey he planned to down by evening and a pack of cigarettes.

Stan could never really be a smoker, no matter how hard he tried and how much he wanted. He was asthmatic since early childhood, which of course made smoking an almost unreachable desire. The desire stemmed perhaps just from the need to be viewed as worthy by his peers. But since it worsened his symptoms he decided never to take up smoking. His friends never followed his suit and they did start smoking barely after high school started, unrestrained by such ailment.

The smell of cigarette smoke always brought back faint memories of ginger hair, soft smile and freckled cheeks he’d like to not think about ever, or in the light of the day when Stan avoided it. Which seemed pretty stupid in the long run, since every night before he succumbed to slumber he took his phone in his both hands and watched the same video, over and over again. He knew he was lying to himself, he knew he would think of him, does think of him, always. Passive thought, active thought, all thoughts come back to him. Like all roads lead to Rome, all of his thoughts lead back to Kyle Broflovski.

His plan made it possible. The desire to smoke. He could take the cigarette between his lips and finish it whole to its very butt, in fact he could smoke as many of them as he desired. No asthmatic attack would matter in this case.

Because Stan Marsh decided one thing once and for all.

Today, May 26th, would be his last day on earth. Alive, to be exact.

Stan entered his modest apartment with the bottle of whiskey clutched to his chest and a certain numbness spreading its heavy weight on his chest. The numbness was an easy feeling, so painfully familiar and safe. He never really understood why the numbness and emptiness felt so safe to him. Maybe because it’s so well known. The interesting thing was that even when he took that into account it didn’t help him in the long run. Stan never knew how to deal with it, how to help himself when everything seemed and felt so shit.

He put the bottle down on the kitchen table with a heavy thud, not hesitating in opening it straight away and pouring himself a glass. Swallowing it down he barely even felt the shiver creeping up on his back all the way to his nape. In lieu of how it felt the first time when he was a snot nosed ten years old kid, a violent whole body jolt with the bitter liquid creeping back up his throat, this felt very underwhelming. Easy to ignore, which he did.

Stan rented a one bedroom apartment in Denver for over a year now that his parents paid for. Being in college one would think the apartment would remind him of many joyful memories with his peers or even on his own, feeling at least a bit of accomplishment and a sense of belonging.

Instead whilst looking at it, he could only recall sleepless nights and doom scrolling on his phone with a sense of doom heaving the air around him with all the assignments he had to do at the back of his mind. That was all before he decided to drop out, that is. That happened over four months ago and his parents had no knowledge of him doing such a thing. They still paid the rent, which made it easy for Stan to rot in bed, letting the overwhelming wave of nothingness consume him to his very core. Without the obligation to go to work or college it was fairly easy to be consumed by it.

What a bum he was. Useless shell of a person. The realization gave the overwhelming sense of shame a green light to spread its way through the overcluttered corners of his mind. That made it easier, he thought. That feeling, that shame, only made the decision seem less selfish. What makes you linger for a little longer if not the nurturing touch of a mother, tender words and promises of unconditional love.

Promises that now seem empty to him. His mind so overshadowed by that shame he no longer could imagine such love promised to him, not even by his mother’s hand. That held him back before, the overbearing worry of driving her to an early grave herself, the sadness that was sure to conquer his mother’s days.

His mind now promises she’d be okay, better even. No bum of a son she spent so much money on. Oh she could afford a trip around the world with such money. It makes it okay, the thought puts him at ease. His dad does not concern him, knowing either he wouldn’t care or he’d find a way through that mental gymnastics of his to make it about himself. He’d write a book about how the death of his only son affected the mental state of his being, thinking this was his calling. The way of making the money he always dreamed of making. His sister always disliked him and even though now their relationship was sort of patched up he couldn't imagine his death affecting her too much.

He didn’t really have friends anymore. Just a few acquaintances he never saw again after dropping out. Just a few people he knew his whole life turned strangers. He never met up with any of them, even if he did meet them by pure chance on the street, they'd only be met with radio silence. If a certain redhead walked down the path far too close he might even head for the hills. He still thought highly of him, he didn’t want him to see him like this.

The one bedroom apartment was nothing impressive. Looking around there wasn’t much to find, just a room with a queen sized unmade bed with a bundled duvet by the feet and a small tv his mother gifted him on a small tv table right across the bed, since he didn’t have a couch. It was a birthday gift. So you can watch broncos on a big screen, even when you’re not home, she’d say, even when the screen wasn’t big enough to be called ‘big screen’.

In the corner of a room stood an unused desk. Bought by his mother as well, an attempt to make his studies more attractive to him. A failed attempt, to say at least, not for lack of trying from his mother of course. Always for lack of trying from him.

The closeby kitchen consisted of a kitchenette, its shelves having stood empty for far too long, and a refrigerator stocked with food long past its expiration date, speckled with patches of green mold. Kyle would call him disgusting for that only. He shuddered at the thought of that and poured himself another glass.

He thought of Kyle all the time, to his very own unfortunate, but usually he allows himself a thought like that, so purely of him and what he’s like, only when he’s plastered. Probably the drinks were starting to hit slowly. Stan doesn’t allow himself to think of anything further regarding that area, unless he’s absolutely obliterated. When he’s drunk like that he gets nostalgic and full of regrets. He regrets ever breaking up with him, ever getting together and ruining their friendship, not breaking up with him sooner. Kyle might be the biggest regret in his life.

It was stupid. He did not want to be thinking of him. Ever. And look, it’s not like he wasn’t trying. His mother would say that it’s normal and he shouldn’t beat himself about it. That it would pass. Stan would disagree.

Stan didn’t feel like smoking, at all. He remembered how it burned, leaving a painful path down his airways during each breath he took in, lasting for the whole day. He bought them perhaps in rebellion, to remind himself it wouldn’t matter anyways. Maybe deep, deep inside he bought them to be reminded of him for the last time. It was the same brand he used to smoke, red Marlboro's. Kyle probably wasn’t a smoker anymore - that was his one and only act of rebellion. He did not need to do that anymore, having gone away from his mother’s smothering.

Stan laid in his unmade bed, feeling crumbs scratching him under his back from the chips Ahoy he bought a few days ago, uncomfortable but too lazy to vacuum it or even to just swipe it out the bed. He sipped on his third glass, contemplating playing the video for the last time ever. Stan fully decided when the silence around him felt like it was swallowing him whole and a certain sense of drowsiness was dawning upon him. Since he couldn’t fall asleep yet, Stan reached for his phone from his pocket. He only had to browse the gallery for a short while, he knew exactly where to find it by heart. While aware of how he should resist the temptation, he was weak.

The camera was facing the front of Kyle’s body and he bent it a little to show the spilled coffee on his white t-shirt. Then he flipped it back on his face and showed his unimpressed facial expression. Stan always found him mesmerizing in this particular shot, no matter what Kyle had to say about that.

Kyle never liked to be recorded, not really. Had been sort of insecure of the camera exposing what he deemed were his imperfections, so he restrained being recorded up close like this. From a certain distance he was okay with being in the shot, still if he could help it he’d rather avoid it. This was an exception, since Stan missed seeing his face back then.

“I hope you’re having a better day than me. Which I’m not entirely sure you are,” spoke Kyle into the camera before beaming at it. “Can’t wait to see you tonight. I love you a lot. Bye.”

Stan had been gone for a few days because of a stupid fucking camping trip, a brilliant idea of his father and uncle, of course. Stan and Kyle had just started dating a few months prior, so each time they were apart felt like a shot through the heart. He always used to watch when he wanted to hear Kyle tell him he loved him. Even after it stopped being true, probably.

Stan felt tears welling in his eyes, stinging and burning, very similar to how his chest felt. As if he was caught aflame, burning alive. He usually didn’t feel as intense and overwhelmed after watching it. Stan failed to understand where was this need of torturing himself coming from. He knew it could never be like it was the first few months they got together. Good! Who would want that anyways. Stan knew he could never be enough for Kyle. There will always be a setback, he would always fuck something up insurmountably and Kyle would be hurting, hurting, hurting. A cycle Kyle would need to escape by cutting him out of his life, like a leg caught in a bear trap.

That’s how it was for Stan. That’s how most of his relationships ended. Most of his friendships as well, hell, he stopped picking up his mothers calls weeks ago for the same reason. She’ll be better off, no son to make her scrunch up her face in pain like she did when she heard his voice void of any emotions or saw the state of his pathetic being. He was no good boyfriend, no good friend and absolutely no good son. Resembling Randy Marsh, flesh and bones, mind and thoughts, inside and out. That was his fate. That was the harsh reality Stan was facing. The harsh reality he was escaping.

With a big gulp of his fifth glass he rose from his bed and walked to his nightstand, picking up the small bottle of various pills thrown in. Without hesitation he swallowed about half the pills in the bottle and washed them down with another hefty swig of whiskey. His stomach churned in disagreement from his choice to fill it up with this instead of giving it a proper meal after two days.

Stan tried to ignore it as he laid back down, chasing the end of the bottle. He didn't bother pouring another drink into a glass. Instead Stan finished the rest straight from the bottle, tossing the empty bottle to the side of the bed.

It was his birthday. He hoped Kyle won’t be too mad he chose to leave this world the same day he came into it. Perhaps he should’ve waited a few more days. Or he could’ve gotten over it yesterday. It didn’t matter now, it felt sort of calculated, as if somewhere deep inside he wanted to die on Kyle’s birthday.

He wanted to wish him a happy birthday. Stan never drunk texted Kyle, not after they broke up. That was a rule he stuck to and fairly surprisingly even while completely shitfaced off the planet Earth. It was the shame holding him back in a steel grip. He knew Kyle’s strong sense of justice and high morals would make him seek Stan out, making him attend AA’s meetings again and go see someone he was no longer interested in seeing - a fucking therapist.

Stan, as opposed to Kyle, was at very least aware of him being a bum and a failure won’t change. There was no future awaiting him, no family, no nothing. Everything was set in stone to seem shit to him and if he did not want to bum everyone out and be a total buzzkill for people he loved and himself, he knew he needed to step out.

He tried to look for different options, he did. Well, at least he was firmly convinced of it. But he felt genuinely stuck and coming up with various ways out nothing seemed permanent enough. In the back of his mind he sort of knew this was the default state of his being, a factory setting. Even if he got better someday, he would feel the doom of getting worse again, speeding up the process in lieu. He would get back right to this position again and again, a vicious cycle he inherited from his father.

This was the only way out.

Fuck it. It wouldn’t matter anyways. Fuck it.

He sloppily took out his phone and scrolled down all the way to the letter K, where he kept his number. Stan couldn’t bring himself to delete it, wishing he ever gathered up enough courage to call it once more, to hear him. He couldn’t call now, Kyle would be here in a matter of minutes if he figured out it was to be the last he hears of him. Kyle would do anything to save him, refusing to ever accept he couldn’t. Which was all thanks to the moral complex he was granted since early childhood. Some fault at it also has his hero complex.

Instead Stan opted to text him. With his eyes half shut already and his mind delirious he barely saw how the message ended up looking, he only heard the soft zincs of the sent messages. The weariness was getting to him and now he did not see anything wrong with closing his eyes, thinking again of nothing else but Kyle. Stan found it strangely romantic, dying with Kyle’s name on his lips, with his being on his mind. He hoped Kyle would forgive him. He wished he could be held by him for the very last time. In the pit of his stomach, he started to feel regret, though with his slipping consciousness it was short-lived.

His stomach was turning and turning and Stan fell asleep despite the utter need to throw up and a very distant noise of someone’s thunderous pounding on his front door.

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Stan woke up with a surprising ease to his being. He was annoyed at the beam of light touching the left side of his face, but there was no heavy weight on his chest, no hangover from the bottle of whiskey he swallowed whole yesterday.

The first thing crossing his mind was utter confusion. Anger followed almost immediately, feeling an overwhelming want to punch something. Stan was sure the pills would do it. Why the fuck was he waking up? If this was not heaven - or where the fuck ever he’d end up after death - he awoke to he saw no reason to be waking up at all. Stan wanted to scream from frustration and overwhelming disappointment. He couldn’t describe this feeling to anyone else even if he wanted. Bummed out doesn’t even come close to cutting it. Should he be seeing this as a sign or not, that did not cross his mind in the slightest, even if that’s what his mom would’ve probably said. Or something equally esoteric.

Stan sat on the bed and breathed in and out for a while. Perhaps to sooth himself, calm down a little. Only then he opened his eyes and at the last minute he swallowed the yelp of surprise.

He was not in his room. Hell, not in his apartment, probably not even in the same apartment building. The room was huge. It was a bedroom consisting of huge built-in wardrobes across the king sized bed, the walls painted in a soft blue paint, the wardrobes plain white but still gave the room a character. Behind him sat a set of pillows with satin pillowcases and a soft warm duvet, the pillows looked fluffy just like he liked them.

Stan hadn’t laid in a bed such as this for a long time, perhaps the last time at Kyle’s house, the satin gave him a shuddering memory of their last encounter at Kyle’s house and he shook his head to not think of that at the moment. It was highly inappropriate for the situation he was facing and he refused to be backtracked from the fact that someone probably fucking kidnapped him. Or something similarly fucking insane.

He tried to stay calm and collected. Okay so now he has to find a way to escape. No biggie. Stan could do that. He should get out of the bed, however inviting it seemed, he resisted to fall right back in and leave the problem of being kidnapped to someone else. It did not make sense though, did it. When he took a second to really think about it, nothing about the first conclusion he jumped to made sense. If someone truly kidnapped him why would they put him here instead of a scary basement whilst I don’t know, tying him up to a radiator or something.

Stan did get out of the bed, deciding to see if the bedroom was locked and only then confirming whether he was kidnapped or not. He decided not to take in anything else from the room, focusing only on the goal to flee and not waste any more time.

The door was unlocked. Stan stared at the doorknob in his hand with a door open ajar with perplexity. Only then he realized everything around him felt as if it was overcast with a hue of some sorts, the sensation familiar to him from dreams. It brought a feeling of deep unease to him and he looked around in caution.

It all felt too real to be a dream, but it had a weird feeling to the whole thing. Stan felt like he was the one intruding, like he wasn’t supposed to be here. As insane as that sounds. So that’s why he should fly the coop. He moved with unease onto the hall looking at it with curious eyes, trying to see whether he was in danger there. The walls in the hall were painted in dark green and it was covered with pictures. Before he could inspect it any further, in the corner of his eyes he detected a movement. He spun around with a jolt to take a better look at the figure to his left, standing with their back turned toward him in front of the staircase.

It was a younger boy, as was apparent. He possessed wild curls on his head, color and texture so similar to Kyle’s he felt his heart hammering inside his chest like a churchbell. It appeared a bit darker to Stan than Kyle’s hair though. He knew what Kyle’s hair was like, spending his whole life looking at it, running his hand through it and pulling it to know to a T when there was a difference. Stan could not be remembering it wrong but he hardly ever trusted his mind, so assuming it was Kyle he moved toward him.

“Kyle? Dude, where-”

“Wrong redhead. Try again,” spoke the boy, scrolling on his phone uninterested in Stan. He didn’t even stop to examine Stan, the boy didn’t even properly look at him. As if his presence was the most normal thing, default. His voice sounded nothing like Kyle’s either. It was a little on the higher note, apparent in its belonging to a teenage boy and while Kyle’s teenage voice was higher as well the boy’s voice had a little edge to it. A little rasp as well. Stan has never heard a voice like that in his life, the boy in front of him was a complete stranger.

That wasn’t the strangest thing here either. His voice sounded a little different as well. Not too much, but to Stan’s ears the difference was significant. He knew what he sounded like and this was not entirely it. What the actual fuck was going on?

“Uh,” the grunt was punched out of him involuntarily, which made the boy stop scrolling and turn back to him with a confused scowl of his own. Stan stopped breathing for a second there, feeling his eyes comically widen.

The boy was the spitting image of his Kyle. Freckles on his nose, mouth and eyes shaped in the exact way as Kyle’s was, gosh, it felt like someone copied and pasted him with a few details getting lost in the transition. He didn’t possess Kyle’s nose or his deep greyish green eyes. That hardly mattered when he could be his long lost twin or something. Stan felt like fainting.

“What’re you looking at me like that for? Something on my face?” the kid touched his cheeks in worry, then he ran his fingers through his hair and he resembled Kyle in that moment even more so than before.

“No, sorry,” he knew better than to stay quiet and worry the boy even further, even if he himself was confused as fuck. Stan wanted to ask the boy where he was, who he was, but something in him, call it intuition maybe, was telling him to not blow his cover. What fucking cover?

“If you’re like looking for Pops or something, he’s downstairs,” the kid spoke again and with that he disappeared down the stairs, leaving bewildered Stan with more questions than before, which wasn’t an ideal state of being at the moment.

Right ever the fuck. Why would he fucking suggest that? Who was his father and why should Stan be looking for him?

It dawned on him when he realized he called him by Kyle’s name when he first saw him. That thought made him hyperventilate and want to throw up at the same time. Yeah, no. That was impossible. Kyle would have to have him when he was about five for it to logically make sense. But nothing is making logical sense at the moment. He should just move forward from now on and not think about anything too hard.

Stan was supposed to be dead. So who knows, maybe he was and this was afterlife or something equally nonsensical. Afterlife where Kyle has a son that looks just like him and Stan’s presence is a normal occurrence to him. Stan did not want to think about what it meant. He didn’t want to be reduced to being just a presence in Kyle’s life, an uncle to his children, kept around only because he was impossible to get rid of, like a rotten root corrupting wherever he reached.

Stan was selfish. He wanted Kyle to be happy without him, he did, but he wanted to be far away from it with his own misery of knowing he couldn’t be happy without Kyle. And if Kyle married someone and had kids with them he wanted to be far, far away from that life.

Maybe this was a punishment. Living in an afterlife forever where he is standing in bleachers, a silent observer, seeing Kyle’s happiness from a distance, afar. And perhaps he deserved it, having put his Kyle through hell when they were together with the worries and stress he brought him. It’s a surprise Kyle didn’t start to turn grey prematurely from the amount of stress Stan brought upon him. The feeling of shame made itself known again, he felt it at the pit of his stomach and it made him feel seasick.

If this is his reality now or whatever the fuck, that he’s a bum in Kyle’s life again, he’s stepping out. He will leave and do whatever just to never inconvenience Kyle’s life ever again. His heart was pounding like a thunderbolt in his chest, and as if that wasn’t enough there was also a chilling shiver running down his spine with drops of cold sweat joining in the path. Stan might actually faint if he doesn’t start moving and doesn’t get the fuck out of there. He has never felt this stressed and upset in his life.

Stan swiftly got his legs moving and he would bolt down stairs if he could, but out of a sudden there was a dull pain making itself known from the front of his knees. Growing wary he walked down stairs at regular speed. Right across the staircase was the front door, his ticket out of this insanity. Yeah he’ll walk out of here and figure out what to do next as he goes. But if Kyle is in close proximity he needs to turn tail and run.

It hit so close to home, as he came to realize. Out of a sudden he is in Denver again and it’s around Christmas time and he spots Kyle in a café on his own, nose buried in an anatomy textbook with that wrinkle between his brows and downturned mouth. Stan knew by the look of it he was deep in concentration and he would rather god struck him with a lightbolt right there and then than having Kyle notice him whilst looking utterly like shit.

Kyle always had a sharp look, an eagle eye, especially when it came to Stan. One look and he immediately knew something was happening, probably a skill he felt like he needed to perfect over the years of something constantly going on with Stan. Stan could just drown in that grayish greenness of his eyes and he wished Kyle wouldn’t look at him like that. Wouldn’t see him, truly see him like no one else in the whole wide world. And he wished he wasn’t such a rotten root, a bad seed, a hand that corrupts everything it touches. He wished his active state of decaying would simply cease him from existence so Kyle would never cry over him ever again.

He ran in a different direction then, too. If Kyle saw him he shall never know, because he didn’t run after him or scream after him. It had been so long since he used to do that. Stan thinks that’s what their relationship was all about, Kyle screaming and yelling after him and Stan running away from it all.

Stan barely could reach for the doorknob when he sensed it again. A movement. Someone walked up to him. The figure spoke to him before he could even think to make a run for it.

“Stan? What are you doing?” Stan felt goosebumps all over his body upon hearing that voice, deeper but barely so. It really was him. His Kyle. He never thought he’d hear him call for him like that again. If he turns around to face him he’ll never be able to bring himself to leave right away. Stan could make it if he reached for the doorknob and fled right away without ever looking into that green again. “Do you want to go to the store or something?”

Stan turned around, of course he did. He did it so quickly he’s sure he’d snap his neck if he did it only a tiny bit faster. And there stood Kyle Broflovski in all his glory, only older by a good twenty five years. The curls on his head that always used to be long enough to sort of fall over his forehead and reach down his neck were now cut short, which looked just as handsome. He also had a beard now, one that framed his sharp features perfectly, making them all more striking. Stan's heart was racing inside his ribcage, he was understanding nothing and his head would be pressing for a logical explanation was he not undressing Kyle with his eyes. He looked hot as fuck, which was not very helpful at the moment. The plan to leave seemed farther away than ever, now that he wanted to climb Kyle as a tree.

The thing was Stan always found Kyle mesmerizing, whether he was aware of it or not. Whatever timeline you put him in, you can be sure of only one thing; he will find Kyle beautiful. Whether when they were kids, teenagers, now…and apparently in an afterlife where they grow older. Did that mean…?

He looked at himself in panic, seeing a completely different set of hands than the ones he had gone to sleep with the night before. A completely different body. Stan was almost afraid to look in the mirror, terrified of what he was about to see staring back at him.

“Okay, enough, Stanley. What’s going on with you?” asked Kyle impatiently, staring daggers at Stan as he examined his new body. He even crossed his arms and narrowed his look, just the way he used to when they were kids. Stan would rather remember that instance than him doing it when they were dating, that was much less pleasant to come back to. It’s not like Kyle would understand what Stan is going through at the moment, even if he tried to explain.

Stan opened his mouth in an attempt to explain to Kyle that as much as he’s grateful for his hospitality and all, but he should be on his way out, from his life preferably. Not preferably for Stan of course, Stan was yearning to stay in Kyle’s proximity even for a second longer, however he was well aware it’d be in Kyle’s best interest he goes. He’d get him rid of the promise of rot and decay, he had to remind himself.

“See? Told you Dad was acting weird,” the same voice from the staircase called from the doorframe to what appeared to be a kitchen. Stan’s eyes darted back to the boy who was leaning against the doorframe with a bowl of what probably was cereal. The kid was looking at him with furrowed burrows and he looked so much like Kyle. Oh, Jesus.

Stan visibly paled at his words. He surely didn’t mean… A bitter bile rose back up his throat and he wasn’t sure of what’d come first, whether he’d throw up or faint.

“Stan-!”

“I think I’m gonna faint,” he interrupted Kyle’s displeased yelp as he felt his vision starting to blur and he leaned against the front door with his back pressed to it to prevent the fall. Kyle immediately acted without hesitation as he dashed towards him and held him by forearms. Stan’s brain short-circuited upon feeling the warmth of Kyle’s hands on his skin once again and maybe he was delusional but the other man’s hands felt impossibly soft and his touch felt delicate despite holding onto him for dear life. Well, Stan has always been a hopeless romantic so maybe there is that.

“Oh, fuck, hold on, Stan. Are you sick? Come here, come sit in the kitchen, I’ll give you some water,” Kyle cooed and Stan wanted him to wrap his arms around him and never let go again. He used to use this soft tone exclusively with Stan, whenever he sensed he needed the comfort. During their teenage years he perfected the skill, knowing Stan inside out.

Kyle guided him towards the kitchen that was so lit with morning sunbeams Stan had to squint his eyes a little to be able to walk to one of the chairs. He felt the other man’s stare boring into his skull but his fingers were still caressing his forearms and Stan couldn’t really focus on anything else.

One would think he’d be over it by now. They broke up over a year ago, so he had more than enough time to move on. Kyle probably did move on and he would scrunch up his nose in distaste if he ever found out about… well, this.

Disbelief passed through him like a wave. He couldn’t believe he was still so in love with Kyle. Perhaps the problem with the man was that he refused to sit down with the feelings he still felt and buried deep inside his core. But buried feelings still exist and are waiting to be brought back to surface when the right opportunity arises. The feeling was longing. Yearning. He still loved Kyle so much. Stan probably didn’t know what to do with all that love now that he fucked them up so vastly it was nearly impossible in Stan’s eyes to ever fix it.

Well, he was dead. So there is no fixing either way. Not that him being alive would change things in a drastic way, no, Stan wouldn’t contact Kyle ever again. It’s something he refused to succumb to. Even when he’d do anything to hear Kyle’s voice, raw and real, not frozen in a memory from a video he kept coming back to. It was a time capsule, back when they thought nothing could ever come between them and they’d be where Stan is now. Married, with kids and a dog and happy, so happy.

“Here, Dad,” when Stan looked up there stood the redheaded boy, handing him a glass of water with concern written all over his face. That softened his facial features, much like it did with Kyle. His Kyle was all sharp ends unless he loved you. Stan wondered if he was only projecting the kid into his Kyle when he attributed it all to the boy.

“Thank you,” he gladly took it and finished it all in one gulp whilst both red heads looked at him as if he was a wounded bird they tended to. Stan felt like that, too.

But oh well. There he had it, expressly declared. It wasn’t just Kyle’s boy. He was their boy, their child. The one Stan only ever dared to dream about, secretly even before they started dating. And Stan got what they wanted now when he’s dead and it’s all just his fantasy. Maybe his idea of heaven if he allows himself the sentiment. Who knows if Kyle ever wanted it truly just as much as he did.

“Better?” asked Kyle, his hands still on his forearms, caressing him and pressing his thumbs a little harder onto the skin, keeping him grounded. He used to do that when Stan had panic attacks. God, he loved him.

Stan looked him in the eyes and smiled at him nodding. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, god. You scared the living shit out of me, never do that again. You feeling sick, hun? Want me to call Anabel? She could prescribe you something even during the weekend, you know how she’s. Just…tell me what’s wrong,” Kyle pressed his thumbs a bit harder again on his forearms when he spilled the helpless plea and Stan felt the guilt set in his chest. He did not deserve all this unconditional care and love, anyways. It was not directed at him. He found himself shaking his head. Hell, he didn’t fucking know who the fuck Anabel was.

“I’m just a little under the weather, nothing drastic. Don’t call uh, Anabel..? Yeah. I’ll be good.”

Kyle scooted back after a little while, probably when he mentally made sure Stan didn’t need his immediate attention in a medical sense, casting Stan with careful look over before retreating back to his omelette, ushering Stan to do the same with his own plate of warm omelette. The loss of close proximity brought some sense back into Stan and once his mind wasn’t screaming Kyle’s name over and over again the guilt and panic set back in and he felt the need to flee again.

Something in Stan kept on telling him he did not belong here, albeit it being his fantasy. His idea of heaven or whatever. He didn’t know whether to believe it, not being much of a christian anymore. It seemed very unlikely, he hadn’t believed in it in ages. No, Stan had a crazy theory of what this could be and it terrified him but also made him want to yawn, because fuck, really? It brought a strange feeling in his chest, the thought of replacing a version of him these people knew and a huge wave of terror passed through him like a whisper, a promise; he’d lose his slice of heaven soon, once they realize. Stan started to think that instead of anything fucking else he crashed into a parallel universe for some reason.

He knew he was not the Stan Kyle wanted to smother with overconsuming love, not the Stan the redheaded boy grew up knowing. This Stan knew nothing of this boy or of this Kyle - if he believed in multiverse theory, which he wasn’t all sure that he did, but if it was that it won’t stand up on his own for long. He’ll slip up and then they’ll know, casting him away and yelling at him to bring them their Stan back. It was super fucking dumb and terrifying.

Which, what the fuck, how is he supposed to that? It’s not like he knew he would appear in such universe after the gruesome ordeal of killing himself. Okay, maybe not gruesome, he doesn’t know what to call the attempt. He didn’t feel gruesome, he felt commonly dull, apathetic to the state of his being. Stan couldn’t have known.

Or maybe this is his personal hell like he first anticipated. Get the intoxicating, addictive feeling of receiving all that staggering love from Kyle and then watch it be denied to him precisely because of who he is. Fuck, Stan needed to get out of there before any of that happened.

“Do you not feel like eggs anymore?” Kyle's question stunned him so much that it interrupted the flow of his panicked thoughts. Kyle’s gaze dropped onto the forgotten plate of now probably cold eggs and Stan didn’t even know how to answer that fucking question. No, he didn’t fucking feel like eggs, he didn’t feel like eating fucking anything with his stomach all in knots and even a look into the green moss of Kyle’s eyes, otherwise calming, made the condition much worse.

“I need to go,” he blurted out instead and Kyle frowned at him with deep confusion while he chewed on his eggs. Stan wanted to open his mouth to explain further, to say something, but nothing would come out. He didn’t want to disappoint Kyle or upset him any more than he had, but he truly needed to fucking beat a retreat. Stan did not belong therefore he mustn’t overstay his welcome and leave before Kyle truly gets upset finding out the truth.

“Yes, yes, Dad, just give me a sec! I’ll be done in a few,” came a voice from not too far away and Kyle’s eyebrows released from the frown he was wearing and nodded to himself, as if he understood the situation. Stan wanted to scream No! No, you don’t understand. Not even I understand! Just let me leave. But the soft, high pitch voice stopped him in his tracks once more. And being called ‘Dad’ again made all the hairs on his body stand on end, his face paling and there he was again, frozen in place.

Another child, much younger than the teenage boy, perhaps around ten years old or so, bolted into the room straight to the fridge situated behind the sitting boy and opened it. Without hesitation the girl grabbed herself a carton of an orange juice and drank it straight from the carton and Stan could only stare while Kyle let out a loud sigh next to him. The girl resembled Kyle a lot, like the older boy, with medium-length ringlets of curls the same darker shade of red, freckled nose and similar thin physique as Kyle used to sport when they were children. All of that aside, this was such a Stan thing to do he felt it tug at his heartstring.

“You’re not to drink from the carton, I’ve told you hundreds of times. Grab a glass!” Kyle scolded with narrowed eyes and the boy opposite them nodded his head while scrunching up his nose in disgust.

“Yeah, it’s totally gross. Other people also want to drink from there,” the boy berated her even further, while reaching back to pinch her. The girl was quick to react and slapped his hand away.

“Jesus Christ, it’s not like I’m spitting there or something,” she rolled her eyes while sitting down next to the boy to eat her already prepared toast. The boy frowned at her and rolled his eyes as well.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s still fucking disgusting.”

Kyle yelped out an outraged “Language!”. Then he expectedly turned to Stan, as if to suggest it’s his turn to scold the kids. Stan felt a cold sweat form on his forehead and drip down his back. Right. He was supposed to interact with his children. And with Kyle, even though he’d rather just stare at him and let some very non-PG-rated thoughts run through his head.

The thing is, Stan wanted to interact with them, gosh, if things were different he would smother them with all the love he could provide, but fucking hell he was terrified of them. He didn’t want to fuck up and say something wrong, something upsetting. They were their children, that was fucking huge to him, he didn’t want to mess it all up.

Stan wanted to get to know their children and see how much of Kyle they had and what they picked up from him, wanted to know who they were as people on their own. He wanted to know what they liked and disliked, who their friends were, what their hobbies were and what they were good at; to know them inside and out, the way his father never got to know him for the lack of trying. For the lack of caring. A wave of nausea washed through him at the sudden implication of ever turning out like his father.

He felt stuck. Stan couldn’t ask the children anything, because they weren’t his children per se. And it felt like it created a huge drift between them and Stan, and despite having everything he’s ever wanted, it resembled a nightmare. Stan had everything he’s ever dreamed of at the palm of his hand but he couldn’t have it. A personal hell.

“Uh,” he grunted instead of gracing Kyle with an answer and reached for the water glass just to remember he drank the whole thing in one gulp before. Fuck, fuck. Why did Stan feel like staying quiet was somewhat much worse than to pull an answer out of his ass? Stan rose from his seat and walked to the sink, filled the glass and swallowed it whole in one massive swig. He tried to ignore it, pretend he was absent from the whole situation. On his back he felt Kyle’s eyes bore into him, with his back to him he wasn’t sure whether he was concerned for his well being again or if he was starting to get pissed off. Knowing Kyle, it was a little bit of both. Shit.

“Daddy won’t be able to drive you to the training today, bub,” Kyle spoke softly to their daughter instead of chiding Stan for acting like an asshole, which he was well aware of, thank you. Stan turned around just to see the girl look up from her plate with such velocity he was surprised her head stayed intact.

“What? Why?” she asked in such a crushed tone Stan felt his heart actually break. He couldn’t see her face and he was sort of glad for the fact, for he doesn’t know if he wouldn’t do something stupid if he saw the crocodile tears forming in her eyes, like offering to drive her even though he felt like a bulldozer ran him through and he had no idea where her training was supposed to take place.

“He’s not feeling well. I’ll drive you instead,” Kyle explained simply and the girl turned around in her chair and casted Stan with the best pleading puppy eyes he’s ever seen. Her eyes were big and blue, which wasn't a trait she inherited from Kyle, and Stan could just drown in the deep blue of her eyes and do anything she’d ask him to. How in the world could they ever say no to her?

“No, Daddy, please drive me!”

“No, come on, no puppy eyes. Leave Dad to rest. What’s wrong with me driving you?” Kyle asked with a counterfeit hurt, Stan though saw that smirk tugging at his lips. The girl turned back to him with her shoulders slouched with disappointment.

“Nothing, but Dad always buys me a slushie and gives me a hug as a good luck charm,” Stan bit his cheeks hard, feeling his eyes well with hot tears and he had to turn his back to Kyle and the kids to prevent an inevitable bawling session. Fuck, why was this happening to him? His daughter sounded like she genuinely wanted him around, wanted to spend time with him and that made Stan feel like someone squeezed his heart at the clench of an iron fist. He could never relate to such a thing, feeling such disdain towards his own father by an early age that came with being disappointed over and over again by him and his emotional absence and detachment, it felt insanely validating to hear he could break at least one cycle.

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” Kyle mused in a teasing, lighthearted tone which told Stan he had no idea such ordeal was happening. Stan hadn’t heard that tone in years and fuck, the tears threatened to spill and he had to press the pad of his fingers to the corners of his eyes, willing the tears away. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had to get himself together, gather what he could to form back his composure and act like none of this was affecting him. Like the calm and collected individual he totally was.

“Yeah, so that’s why he has to drive me, you see?” said the little girl relentlessly, Stan almost turned around and promised her he would. The feeling of acceptance, love and validation was a very addictive feeling, Stan realized. He would do anything to chase it. Already all calmed down, he turned around to face the scene.

He heard Kyle’s low chuckle at the girl’s antics and saw their son shaking his head. Stan decided to fill his glass one more time with water and sit down beside Kyle with it clutched in his right hand before putting it on the table.

“Dad almost face planted the floor, don’t think it’s happening,” said the boy between gulps of cereal, his tone soft and surprisingly not mocking. “I can buy you the stupid slushie when Pa drives us if you shut up.”

The little girl squealed upon hearing it, turning her whole body towards her brother before enveloping him in a tight hug. The boy looked annoyed at that, but didn’t put a stop to it. It felt alien to Stan as well, as a younger sibling knowing not only that Shelley would much rather sit on a hot grill before doing an act of kindness of any sort towards Stan, she’d also kick him in the head for bothering her. She’d probably bark at him to suck it up if he was in his daughter's (which was still insane to even consider) shoes.

What the fuck did Stan and Kyle do to achieve such white picket fence life? He didn’t understand, there was just no way in hell he’d make it like this. This other Stan must’ve not fucked up their life in such vastness, must’ve given Kyle so much more than this Stan ever had in his ability. Stan felt sick to his stomach with the knowledge there was an universe, a possibility, of him not fucking Kyle up. Of not ruining his life with his stupid fucking inherited burden. It’s totally stupid, Kyle and him always agreed the parallel universe theory was totally fucking overrated.

How was this happening, for real. All Stan wanted was for it to not hurt anymore, to not ache anymore, to not think of Kyle and feel the deep sense of regret. Over ever letting him go. He wanted parallel universes to exist, even if it was totally stupid. He wanted to know he could love Kyle unconditionally, like he did, without consequences, set backs, worries. What would be of Kyle if he was to become a Sharon Marsh. Stan would rather die than to become Randy Marsh in that scenario. He did. Why is he being punished for that?

This felt like a punishment. It was rubbed into his face there was a chance, a possibility of him overcoming his shortcomings and having an apple pie life with the love of his life, the one he’d never get over. Kyle is probably dating a snobby med student classmate in the reality where Stan’s body is rotting six feet under, probably glad he, in the end, decided to listen to Stan and let them break up. It felt so insane to be hyperaware of that, that the body he grew up with is long past it’s due. This all was weird.

He hated that he could be basking in the reality where he’s got Kyle to keep, kids and overall just having everything he’d ever wanted, instead he is dreading it and dissociating every chance he has, mourning the reality he left behind and for what. For a Kyle, that's probably not even thinking about him anymore? For a body he hated, for a mind he despised, for not being good enough, well enough, sober? Jesus fucking Christ, he has everything, why does he still feel so shitty? He could get used to this, he could, he knew he could, and back then he knew he would take advantage of this situation, to bask in it. The overwhelming sense of self hatred he grew accustomed to didn’t let him. Because at the end of the day he knew he didn’t deserve this.

Kyle’s touch felt like a bolt of electricity where he stroked his forearm before leaning in and kissing him on cheek. “I’ll drive the kids to the band practice and the training, I’ll be right back. Go lay down in bed, you might feel better.”

Before Stan could even process the kiss happening he was being squeezed into a tight embrace by the little girl, who gave him a kiss on the cheek as well. It was overwhelming, all that affection. It stopped all the miserable thoughts dead in its tracks.

“Bye, Daddy! I’ll bring you a slushie to feel better,” she promised and Stan felt the corners of his mouth spread into a genuine smile at the sweet, sweet kindness his daughter was showing him.

“Thank you. I bet I’ll feel much better,” he answered honestly, making the little girl giggle and with a proud smile she ran up to the door after her brother, who was already clutching the front door handle in his palm.

“Bye, Dad, feel better soon,” he bid him a farewell with a wave of his hand and Stan waved back dumbfounded.

Both children disappeared behind the front door, Kyle stopped before it to take one last look at Stan. “I will stop by a grocery store on the way back, okay? I love you. Go to bed,” he ordered and went after their children not waiting for an answer. This Kyle probably already knew Stan loved him more than anything.

Stan let himself cry only when he heard the car leave the driveway, when he was sure no one would run back into the house and see him like this, like the absolute wreck he was. A shell of a person they know. He cried and cried and cried, feeling like he was robbed of the deep nothingness promised to him. Stan didn’t understand why he was put into a situation like this.

He didn’t know how long he had before Kyle returned, so he pulled himself together the best he could with the knowledge of being a dead man living someone else’s life all of a sudden. He gathered all the strength he had and climbed the stairs upstairs back to the bedroom. Stan didn’t want to look at the photos hanging on the wall, seeing the life someone with his name in his skin lived, without him being granted the chance.

Fuck this. Fuck this.

He no longer cared about being found out or whatever. Stan fell into the bed with a thud and tangled himself into the duvet, head and all. When he closed his eyes, he was back in that apartment, suffocating under his own duvet, with the windows closed and the blinds shut, the air was heavy and dry, the room dark and smothering. Nothing got fixed.

Nothing.

The crushing ache still clutched at his chest and he still missed Kyle. He was glad the room didn’t smell like his apartment did. It had a distinctive smell to it, sort of like Kyle but also not exactly. It was a completely new smell, but still having something familiar to it. It felt soothing, everything around him scared the shit out of him and made him feel alienated, but at the same time it felt like everything around him was scooping him in its warm embrace with a promise of everything turning out okay.

Lying there, Stan lost track of time, so when he distantly heard the front door open and close he had no idea how much time had passed. An hour, maybe. He wanted to go back there and spend time with Kyle. Ask him about anything, everything. First question would be ‘what the fuck? how is this our life?’. And Kyle would laugh and tell him he should’ve listened when he told him to not do this. To not break up and to not shut him out. And now his chance is gone, completely out of reach and he can just watch how his life would’ve turned out had he only listened to him. Kyle’d revel in it, in the fact he was right, as always. Stan would let him, obviously unarmed with any sort of argument against that. What was this if not the proof of Kyle’s argument?

Maybe all he wanted to talk to was his Kyle. At very least to apologize for shutting him out like that. It wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t just Kyle, hell, the last time he spoke to Kenny was even before he cut Kyle out. He hadn’t seen them in years, Kenny, Cartman or Butters. That doesn’t really matter because Kyle was..everything. God he regretted making him walk out of his life.

The door to the bedroom opened softly and Stan stayed unmoving in the bed. The space next to him dipped with weight and he felt Kyle’s hand caressing his arm through the duvet. Stan wanted to weep again, not allowing himself.

“Is it bad?” Kyle asked carefully, as if already knowing it has to do more with Stan’s psyche than his physical body. Stan wondered what gave it away. Throughout all the years spent by the side of the other Stan he learned to read between the blurry lines. Oh Stan could wail. That must suck so bad.

Stan gulped slowly and closed his eyes, slowly breathing in.

“Don’t fret about the kids, okay? They did worry a bit and had some questions, but I took care of it. So if that’s what’s eating you about this, it doesn’t have to.”

Maybe this was of the other Stan’s worries. He must hate himself for these as much as Stan does with himself. It was the same fear as the one of worrying his mom about the state he’s in. No one should worry about him, ever.

Stan untangled himself from the cocoon of duvet he'd ended up in and turned to Kyle. Upon seeing him, Kyle gave him a small reassuring smile before running his hand through his hair. Stan sighed and decided to indulge himself a little, laying his head down in Kyle’s lap and breathing in his scent. He did smell like he used to a bit, not entirely, there was the same deviation Stan recognized in the room. He wanted to die covered in that smell.

“I love you,” he breathed a confession in a whisper, clutching Kyle’s thigh in a strong grip, as if the other man was to dissolve beneath his fingers like grains of sand. Kyle’s presence did feel like something to hold on to, a life line in the dark. Otherwise Stan might come to lose it as quickly as he came to gain it.

Kyle continued to run his hand through his hair in such a soothing matter Stan felt like all the anxiety and pain and ache was worth it, for this felt like the slice of heaven he was promised.

“Stan. I love you, too,” said Kyle, his voice lowered as well, feeling like they were in their very own bubble, just them two in the whole entire world. Stan felt like that a lot during their years of dating and before that as well, Kyle had always been this highlighted important bit of his everyday life. By his side he often forgot about other people in his field of vision.

The other man didn’t understand the gratification behind the confession. He almost uttered ‘still’ in it, though he recognized he could offend this Kyle. He wouldn’t understand the notion. How much the still really mattered, how Stan still loved Kyle like a day since their break up hadn’t passed, how that longing had him in chokehold ever since Kyle did listen to his wishes to leave him alone to rot. This Kyle probably heard that confession daily, perhaps the term of endearment came to be taken of granted. It went without saying - of course Stan loved him.

“Do you remember our college years?” Stan asked quietly, scared of the answer. He gathered a lot of courage to ask about it, to find out exactly where he went wrong and how irreparable his relationship with his Kyle truly was. I mean, pretty irreparable, considering his current predicament.

To his surprise Kyle snorted, as if in disbelief. Stan looked up to look at his face in curiosity. “Well, yeah. I could only forget the worst years of my life if I tried very, very hard.”

Stan felt his breath catch in his throat, his eyes widen and his heart go and try to beat its way out of his ribcage, straight to Kyle’s lap as well. It was all his, anyways. “What do you mean?” he asked in a strangled voice and Kyle narrowed his eyes at him in an incredulous way.

“You know what I mean good and well, Stanley.”

“Humour me. Pretend I’m a version of me from that time, catch me up with everything that’s happened,” Stan knew he was pushing his luck, but he didn’t care, he asked that of Kyle almost out of breath, his hands shaking from anticipation. He couldn’t believe there was a small slight chance that this Kyle and Stan went through something similar to what his Kyle and he went through and still ended up here. This life felt so out of reach because the other Stan was supposed to be better than him, less of a fuck up. To know he perhaps wasn’t… Stan couldn’t believe it.

“Humour you, huh? Let’s see. My college years might’ve been the worst possible thing to live through probably because it was the hardest and most intense studying I had to do, everything toppling over my head and crashing down on me and I had to do what? That’s right, suck it up or leave the place to someone more capable. Oh, and also the love of my life had broken up with me and refused to see me for a year, no texts, no calls, just leaving me in the dark to just power through, and to get back in contact the said love of my life had to…are you sure you want me to continue? You know how that goes.”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Stan, what is this about? Neither of us like to be reminded of these times. I’m not joking when I say it was the worst and the hardest time of my life,” Kyle sighed and looked away from Stan’s intense eye contact, facing the window by his right. He looked lost in thoughts, as if reminiscing what went down. He looked so woeful Stan felt a pang of guilt clutch at his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

Kyle looked back at him, his eyes glossy with tears, his hand sliding down from his hair to his cheek. “I could’ve lost you. You meant the world to me and I could’ve lost you. You can’t imagine the guilt I still wake up with, knowing you were struggling and I fucking listened when you told me to leave you. What I told you back then.”

“I meant the world to you,” Stan repeated, dumbfounded. He wanted to address everything else Kyle had mentioned in his speech, though he found himself unable to focus on anything but the bit that made the least sense to him.

Kyle gave him an irritated look and pulled on his hair. “Idiot. Of course you did, you know you did.”

Stan didn’t, actually. Stan had no idea whether he wasn’t just a distant memory of distress and anxiety to Kyle, that he tried to not remind himself of. That’s what he kept saying to himself anyways, to keep his streak of not bothering him up to date. There were so many instances of him almost breaking it, his pride the only thing standing in his way. To know Kyle could’ve been on the other side waiting for him as well... Stan would like to pretend it would change everything if he knew. It probably wouldn’t. He was so fucking scared. And deep in his core, he believed whole heartedly how fucking himself and Kyle up was written in his nature, carved in him deep to the bones.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty. It was all my fault anyways. Please don’t feel guilty,” Stan couldn’t look him in the eye when he begged, for he’d rather stay dead and buried than to cause Kyle to feel such a strong sense of culpability for something that was sincerely out of his hands.

“That’s why I don’t like to bring this up. We will never agree. What we should agree on is that it was no one’s fault. Shit happens, Stan. I know you’ll never agree with that, you absolute buffoon.”

Stan let out a soft, watery laugh and buried his face in Kyle’s stomach, hiding from the bare truth of it all. He’d never agree. But he’d rather stay here, in the soft heat of Kyle’s body, pressed close and unmoving, than to face it. He wanted to tell him he loved him, again. Stan wanted to hear Kyle call him a sap and flick his cheek before promising he loved him as well. Stan wanted to pretend they were twenty one again, in their dorm room Stan had to move out of to that god forsaken apartment, and had all the time in the world to bask in each other’s heat. In being Stan and Kyle, together at last, as it was meant to be, Stan not being dead and Kyle not angry with him.

“Were you thinking about that when you were here all alone?” Kyle asked with a hand pressed against the nape of Stan’s neck. “Stan.”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t admit he did think about it and worse, much worse things. Stan wanted to just lay there, on Kyle, in Kyle, crawl inside his skin and stay there for as long as his love would have him. Forever, if he let him. Couldn’t take in the prospect of being dead and how fucking permanent that was, how hard he wanted to wail from being denied of speaking to a Kyle whose hard ends and edges weren’t softened with time.

All this time it was a passive thought, something to take the edge off, but each time he reminded himself of the fact he felt a dull ache clutch at his insides. Every time Stan has tried to make himself understand he only confused himself more. None of this made sense, naturally. After death you’re not supposed to still long for people, feel intense emotions and regrets. You’re supposed to be all peaceful and shit, finally gaining serenity. This is bullshit.

“You can tell me. It’s…easier, if you talk about it. I know it’s hard,” Kyle spoke softly to him and it felt strange. Kyle always tried to be there but he usually said all the wrong things, too strict and factual, which made Stan sort of clam up and not want to talk about things that made him seem weak. It got better with time, much better, but Stan got worse at talking. He knew Kyle got his back without saying, but hearing him actually say it was peculiar.

“I’ve just.. been thinking, I guess. About all the stuff that I’ve uh, fucked up over the years. And it’s crazy I actually get to be here and I don’t really like, understand how I got here. It feels sort of….I dunno, undeserving ” Stan had tried to not give himself away, but at the same time he sort of didn’t care anymore. He pressed his face even closer to Kyle’s warm body, his speech was probably a bit muffled since he was talking into the fabric of Kyle’s shirt. Stan knew Kyle understood him, anyway.

“Oh, honey,” Kyle’s fingers went back into his hair in a soothing manner. Kyle doesn’t use petnames much, almost not at all, so Stan perked up beside himself to be called that. “We’ve both fucked up plenty of times over the years. You’ve always been so unforgiving towards yourself. There is no one in the world who deserves this more than you.”

Stan wanted to believe him. But it was hard to imagine a world where he does. Where the way they both fucked up was comparable in any way. He was idealizing Kyle a little, probably. Kyle stood on a pedestal ever since they were kids, which had its ups and downs. Kyle wouldn’t be too thrilled to know.

“I think what you need to do is give yourself some fucking grace, like I keep telling you. You know, you’re so much stronger than you think. You went through so much shit, so many obstacles, and you powered through. You got through really hard things, things no one should go through as a kid, and it’s normal you feel weak from here and there,” Kyle continued while running his fingers through his hair. Stan felt his eyes water.

“I gave up, Kyle,” he confessed in a whisper, speaking any bit louder would cause his voice to break. “When..when it got hard, I just gave up. Because I just, fuck, I felt like it didn’t make sense for me to continue this fucking bullshit when it will go to shit again and again and again and I was so tired, Ky, so fucking tired of this all.”

“I know. I know, Stan. It’s okay, you know it was a very hard time. You got better, remember? There was so much bad stuff happening I think it made you forget it gets better with time. Because for so long it didn’t. Oh, I remember, Stan, just how fucking horrible it was. But I also remember how good it was when you got better. When you tried and fought.”

Kyle didn’t understand there was no fighting left for him to do. Even if he wanted to try, that chance went out the window the moment the pills hit his system and he fell asleep. Stan thinks, having granted the chance to try, he maybe would call his mom and ask her to help him. She always somehow knew what to do. He’ll never know, now.

They fell silent for a bit when Stan cried into Kyle’s shirt. Kyle gave him a minute, providing comfort just through his presence and warmth and, to no one’s surprise, it helped. Stan pulled away a little, with his eyes closed he could pretend he was eighteen in his old childhood room and pretend nothing bad had ever happened.

Stan had a little wrapped idea of what it was like to die and honestly, the misconception stemmed from the promises of eternal peace, the idea of heaven or hell seemed too far-fetched anyways, so did any other conceptions of any afterlife. He believed he’d just… be gone. But he never considered nor gave too much thought about what it truly meant. How his mom would never hold his hand or hug him again, Shelley won’t have anyone to share fed-up looks with whenever their father made a complete idiot out of himself, won’t be able to make amends with Kyle. Won’t be able to suck it up and get better because from that point on there is no getting better.

There was supposed to be nothing.

He wasn’t supposed to feel the tremendous weight of regret in his chest. All Stan could do was cry, it was all that was left to do. He could just suck it up and stay with this Kyle and their children, knowing nothing about them truly but with the deliberation that he could learn. But there will always be that thought at the back of his mind that this is another thing he’s fucked up and now he’s left cleaning up the mess. That anything could give him away and he’d be casted away.

Stan went to focus on what is now, since there wasn’t anything else to focus on. He laid down in bed with Kyle snuggling up to him from behind, his whole body warm on where it was meeting Stan’s back, his hands holding Stan ones in a gentle hold. Stan once again felt completely at peace, with his eyes closed and knowing the touch was Kyle’s and no one else's.

“Go sleep some more. Everything will seem better when you wake up, Stan,” whispered Kyle into the nape of his neck, more of an order than a request. Stan let out a tired chuckle, knowing some things simply never change, which was very much a small relief.

“You’ll be here when I wake up, right?” Stan asked dumbly, receiving only a small laugh from Kyle, who promised him he would, of course he would. Only with that knowledge Stan allowed himself to find a comfortable position on his side, whole body pressed into Kyle.

“Mm, okay. I love you,” he mumbled at last, already feeling weariness swallowing him whole. With his eyes already closed all that was left to feel was his consciousness slipping away. He never heard Kyle say it back.

Stan would like to hear him say it back once again.

But he was already gone.

────────────────

When Stan woke up again he was no longer surrounded by Kyle’s scent nor by the calming silence he fell asleep in. No, he woke to multiple voices blending into an incomprehensible set of noises coming from a distance, someone talking quietly by his side, some more noises coming from somewhere far back from him, Stan couldn’t decipher what it was, someone coming closer with a shuffling step.

“Kyle?” he said, or more accurately hoarsed out, before he could even open his eyes, barely stopping himself from reaching for him. But he no longer felt the comforting weight of the other man against him, no longer felt him anywhere. Kyle was gone.

“He’s up.”

Stan opened his eyes and had to close them immediately again with how his head throbbed from the bright light coming from the window. It wasn’t enough for him to take in where he was, which made panic well up in him, his heart racing with the thought that Kyle wasn’t there. The voice that spoke clearly belonged to someone Stan knew, Kevin McCormick maybe. He didn't care. It was not Kyle. Fuck, fuck.

“Stan! Oh, baby, we’re here. We’re with you. Are you hurting?” a pair of hands held his right hand in a tight hold, the soft voice of his mother and the tone of emergency made him try to open his eyes once again. His head was fucking killing him.

By his right side stood his mom and behind her on one of the chairs sat his sister, his mom’s cheeks wet and his sister’s expression unreadable. For once she didn’t seem mad or pissed off. Shelley seemed lost and sort of shaken. Her hand was tightly held by Kevin McCormick, her boyfriend - Stan knew he heard him talk-, who stood by her side. Stan was so confused and his head hurt and he wanted Kyle.

“Where,” he tried to voice his concerns but his throat constricted and he felt a dull pain, similar to the one where you’ve been thirsty for too long. He cleared his throat, which made it worse and his face scrunched up in discomfort.

“Here, baby, drink up,” said his mom, her tone still with a touch of emergency, her voice higher. Stan looked at her warily before accepting the glass of water she put in his hand.

It helped a little to chase the sting away, though his head was still hammering with sharp pain, and as a matter of fact so was his stomach, though the pain was much more on the dull side.

Shelley wasn't looking at him, instead she casted her look into the closed window by his right side and Kevin hoovered awkwardly in the corner of the room, obviously unsure with what to do with his hands.

The silence in the room was an uncomfortable one. His mom seemed two seconds away from a panic attack or a breakdown, Shelley wouldn't look at him and wouldn't speak, Kevin didn't know what to do or say, never been much of a talker anyways. Stan felt like there was a huge wall between his family and him in regards to understanding the situation.

Then it hit. Suddenly, without any kind of warning, his mind provided faint memories of an empty whiskey bottle and an open bottle of pills, stomach ache and delirium followed by an inevitable loss of consciousness. Stan’s breath caught in his throat and he felt like weeping into his pillow.

Well, fuck. Has he dreamed all of that? That didn’t feel right, at all. Fuck, fuck.

Stan wanted to fill the room with a pained scream, to yield the silence in the room and to express the overpowering feeling of his heart shattering into a million pieces into words. He couldn’t believe it, it felt so unbelievably real. Stan could still remember Kyle’s face to an intense detail, could count the freckles on his cheeks and when he thought of it he still could feel the tickling brush of his beard on the nape of his neck, and the scent, gosh he could never forget the smell of him, of the house.

That doesn’t fucking happen in normal dreams. No, what?

“Oh, Stan,” said his mom, it came out sounding like a sob. Stan looked back at her and he bit his lip to prevent his very own crying session. “Is anything hurting, honey?”

“No,” he answered plainly, then his head made itself known with a pang of another throbbing pain. “Just my stomach, a little bit. And my head is killing me.”

“The whiskey and near overdose does that to a folk,” said Shelley with a hardened look, which Stan couldn’t reciprocate without feeling like utter shit, so he looked away from her. His mom took a sharp intake of breath and turned to Shelley with an incredulous look. “What the fuck were you thinking, Stan?”

His mother told Shelley to stop and Kevin scratched the back of his head. “Coffee, anyone? I’ll uh, go get it,” Kevin’s request was met with a thankful look from Sharon, who nodded and caressed his hand before he bolted out of the room. Shelley was still looking at him, as if expecting an answer from Stan, who of course wasn’t going to give one.

His sister opened her mouth to say something and Stan braced himself to be belittled some more before his mother put a swift stop to it. “Shelley, don’t. Isn’t it obvious your brother’s already going through so much? He doesn’t need this from you.”

Shelley got on her feet and fled the scene before saying anything else, Stan couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw a stream of tears running down her cheeks. He turned back to his mom, who sat at the edge of the bed and stroked his cheeks in both her hands.

“Oh, my baby. I’m so glad you’re okay, so, so glad. And so is Shelley. She has trouble expressing it, you know her, tough love. Kevin told me she took it pretty bad when..when they found you. Oh, Stan.”

He got enveloped into a tight hug, his mom sobbing into his shoulder. Stan hugged back, feeling his eyes sting with tears. He let them fall freely, no point in holding back now. His mom always tried to keep an appearance, to never seem weak in front of them, especially when her and his dad got divorced. He’s never seen her like this, really, he’s seen her thundering rage, yes, but has never seen her break down like this.

Similar to laugh, such wails looked for company and Stan matched his mom in her weeping. He cried because he didn’t know what to do now. He cried because the intense empty feeling of missing Kyle never disappeared after he woke up. He cried because making amends was hard. He cried because his mom was holding him and he finally could. Something strange happened during it. It felt like something heavy got lifted from his chest. Not fully taken away, just lifted. The weight felt a little easier to bear now.

Shelley came back after a while, with a cup of cold coffee for their mom. She sat at the other side of Stan’s bed and slumped her shoulders with a shuddering exhale. “Never do that again, turd. You hear me? I’ll finish the job next time you try something like this.”

Stan just sighed and let out a small laugh. Tough love, his mom called it. Maybe she was right. Maybe Shelley under all that hardened looks and snide remarks cared about him. Maybe she reacted like she did because she was scared. Stan never considered the option.

“I don’t know what to do now,” Stan admitted in a hushed tone, his voice breaking at the end. He felt tears prickling at his eyes and once more he let them fall.

“Sorry to break it to you, Stan, but you just secured a one-way ticket to the psych ward,” when Sharon sent a panicked look her way Shelley just sighed and toyed with the loose strings of the bracelet she was wearing. Stan stared at both of them blankly, waiting to be told it was a joke. “No, Mom, seriously why fucking dance around it. He needs to be told.”

“Psych ward? What ever the fuck for? I’m not fucking crazy, you know! Just because I-”

“You what? Tried to kill yourself and very nearly succeeded? That’s precisely the shit you get sent to the psych ward with, Stan! Do you think we’d send you to the looney bin if we thought there was any way to achieve recovery with you?” Shelley sharply interrupted him, her tone harsh and her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Stan, do you actually understand Kevin and I had to break into your apartment and carry you to our car because you wouldn’t fucking wake up? Do you understand the whole ride to the fucking hospital I had to come to terms with the possibility of you dying on me?”

His mom caressed the back of his hand with such gentle, loving touch it nearly distracted him from being told off like this by his sister. Only nearly, because Shelley crying over him took the cake in this scene. He’s almost never seen her cry and certainly never over him, not counting what he’s seen before she left the room for he’d been sure those were tears of frustration. It felt wrong. Stan’s eyes burned like hell from all the tears he’d shed and the waterfalls didn’t seem to want to stop. He genuinely felt like utter shit.

“I’m sorry, Shelley,” his voice was small when he spoke, the remorse bleeding from his words. It reminded him of the time he hit her super hard with a stick they found at Jimbo’s and she’d fall on the ground, silently clutching at her bleeding wound. She didn’t cry back then, didn’t even yell nor try to hit him back. Stan felt really bad. He only whispered his apology and it went unheard back then.

“That’s not gonna cut it. You have to promise, Stan. Promise me you’ll never pull this ever again,” said Shelley, her words hard and definite. There wasn’t any room to argue. Not that Stan wanted to, that is.

“I promise,” he meant it, he thinks. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore, Stan felt like he skipped some important bits and pieces of what his future was supposed to bring. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so lost. Okay, he’ll get locked up in a looney bin. Then what?

He doesn’t know and it terrifies him.

“I know you don’t want to, Stanley. I don’t want you to go, either. If I could I’d just scoop you into my arms, take you home and never let you leave again,” his mom was caressing his cheeks again and she looked so dejected it broke Stan’s heart a little more. “That’s not how it works, though. I know you need it, Stan. We can’t and won’t make you go-”

“Speak for yourself, Mom. I absolutely will make him go.”

“-however, I think you yourself know it’d be for the best. I do.”

Stan thought about it. He never considered it an option before, it always seemed too far-fetched to do so, Stan never thought it was bad enough to go through with it. But it was bad enough that he couldn’t deal with it on his own, so who the fuck knows anymore.

His mom saw he was considering it, so she just kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair, like she always did. “You don’t have to decide now, you’ll be here for a little while anyways. You can think it through. Do you wanna get some more rest now?”

Might as well. There was nothing else to do, anyways. Stan only said he would, settling down on his right side to nod off. He fell asleep reminiscing about Kyle and his smell and that warm feeling he felt when he held him in his embrace. The thought that it all will end at daydreams was terrifying to him. His stomach was all in knots and Stan fell asleep scared he would never feel his weight on his back ever again.

The next time he woke up his mom was on the phone and he had no idea how long he slept for. It felt like a quick, dreamless nap but who actually knows. Might’ve been out for hours and he wouldn’t know. He was just glad he wasn’t being tortured with more dreams about Kyle. Even the thought of the redhead hurt.

“-yes, Randy, it is serious! I really don’t understand why a fucking camping trip is more important than the fact that your son is in hospital! You know what, don’t bother.”

His mom’s whisper yelling told him who was on the other line before she did. His father. Stan was sort of glad he didn’t make it. He couldn’t imagine what his father would tell him, how he’d look at him. Certainly not with remorse and sorrow, like his mom did. Maybe he was ashamed. It had to be a little embarrassing to tell your red neck best buds your son is such a wuss he’d tried to kill himself. His dad did pretend he was above them sometimes, Stan and Shelley knew better.

“Sorry, hun, did I wake you up?” his mom’s concerns interrupted the flow of his thoughts and he shrugged his shoulders in indifference.

“It’s fine. Should probably wake up anyway.”

His mom bit her lip and pulled her chair closer to his bed, which was a clear indication that what his mom was about to tell him was serious. Stan didn’t feel like any more surprises anymore.

“What, Mom? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Stan, Kyle’s here to see you. I told him I’d ask you if you wanted to see him when you wake up. Should I send him in or send him home? You call the shots.”

Stan felt his heart somewhere up in his throat and felt it try to beat its way out of his body and make a run for it straight back to Kyle. Stan couldn’t believe Kyle was there, somewhere in the waiting room, a few feet from him behind the door. Oh, fuck.

“Stan? You look like you’re about to faint, honey. You don’t have to see him, he’ll understand,” said his mom, clearly distressed by his condition, not understanding it stemmed from plain nervousness and not from grudge.

“No! I mean, no, you can let him in. I, uh, wanted to talk to him, anyways,” his mom gave him a small knowing smile before she walked out, which annoyed him. She didn’t know anything.

He didn’t stay annoyed for long. The moment he saw movement by the door to his room his heart quickened again and Stan involuntarily held his breath, his mind racing with thoughts so distant from his initial irritation.

Kyle walked into the room with a tentative step, which was so out of character Stan wanted to weep. He felt like he was looking at him for the very first time and he barely kept his jaw intact. Kyle looked a little rough around the edges, which went unnoticed by Stan’s careful gaze.

He looked mesmerizing as ever, though it was obvious he had a set of rough days. There were dark bags under his eyes, his hair was hidden by a hat Stan remembered he swore off back when they were still dating, embracing the natural condition of his hair and having an eight step hair styling routine. Wearing a hat back then meant he was taking priorities in different aspects of his life than the condition of his hair, which mostly translated into the fact that he wasn't doing very well. His acne also came back a little, which must’ve annoyed him.

“Hey, Stan,” he spoke carefully, as if still waiting to be kicked out. He also gave Stan a small smile, which melted Stan straight to the bones. His heart was still beating hastily, his stomach churning with anxiety. Stan was so in love with him it physically hurt.

“Kyle. Hey,” Stan smiled at him back, watching Kyle take a seat next to him. Stan was still looking at his face, noticing the way his brows furrowed and how he bit his lips from inside, all of which was an indication he was deep in thought. Perhaps rehearsing what to tell him.

Stan was also groping. It’s been so long since they’ve been in such close proximity to one another, it was hard to find a stable base to begin with. Stan absolutely couldn’t drop the bomb of his unwavering feelings he still felt towards him. It wouldn’t do, it felt too rushed, too soon. Besides, he would never burden Kyle with such baggage when he himself had no idea whatsoever where he’d meet Kyle in that instance. Whether in the middle with his feelings reciprocated, or whether that boat has long before sailed beyond the horizon.

“How did you know I’m here?” Stan asked, voice small. He had decided to go with this, a safe, stable base. A valid point to ponder about, even if to be honest Stan couldn’t care less anymore. Kyle was here, flesh and bones, his Kyle was here and Stan once more felt like it was the first time in forever he got to breathe clearly, his chest a little lighter again. His stomach dropped at the possibility of Kyle just feeling pity towards him and an obligation to make things right. Just who he is as a person. Maybe there is a guy waiting for him at the dorm, a hotshot med student like himself, and Kyle’s just checking on him to fulfill some moral obligation and then go back to him.

Stan felt like throwing up.

“I was spending the night with Kenny and Butters, which has become a thing since I’m not very fond of my roommate at the dorm,” Kyle began to explain with a careful tone and Stan hated it, hated having Kyle being so careful with what he says to him. He winced when he realized why he had a new roommate and precisely him being the reason for Kyle's turmoil. “Ken got a text from his brother that he’s in town if he wanted to meet up, which of course brought up the question why and Kevin told him about you, so uh. Here we are.”

“Kenny is here, too?”

Kyle nodded. And so was Butters, apparently. Stan looked at the ceiling and just wanted to cease from existence at this instant.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

Stan’s gaze snapped back at Kyle who was looking at him with an unsure smile. He gave him a confused look and Kyle clutched his phone in his right hand. Stan looked at the phone in his hands, as if it was supposed to be some sort of clue, but Stan was pulling a blank.

“For your message. You texted me happy birthday. And..the other thing. I wanted to thank you in person and hoped we could talk,” Kyle wasn’t meeting his eyes, instead he casted his gaze at the phone in his hand.

Stan didn’t know what he was talking about and it bothered him to no end. He was really drunk the other day so he must’ve done something he wasn’t remembering. He knew it was Kyle’s birthday, he could never forget, but he didn’t remember texting him. Stan felt panic and an intense grief when he realized that was a very Randy Marsh thing to do, text someone completely obliterated and not remembering the next day. The shame and humiliation spread its way through his whole body and Stan felt sick.

“Sorry, Kyle. Whatever I texted you the other day..I don’t remember any of it. It all is a blur for me. Sorry,” Stan admitted in a choked voice and nothing felt worse than seeing Kyle’s face fall like that. He collected himself quickly but Stan saw it.

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it, it’s fine. I didn’t want to drop anything on you, especially now that..yeah. I didn’t mean to make this about me. I didn’t want to just ask you how you’re doing because I bet everyone already has and you’re tired of repeating it. So, just.. thanks. It was sweet,” Kyle’s reassuring smile didn’t do its job since Stan still saw in his eyes he was bothered Stan didn’t remember.

But it was honest to god really nice Kyle tried to distract him from the fact he’s in a hospital after a suicide attempt and tried to not circle back to it. Stan also knew he wanted to ask, badly. Stan was glad he didn’t let himself be curious.

“I, uh. Thanks. For coming, I mean. It’s nice that you still care after..yeah. But you don’t have to…be here. I’m alive and well, yeah, whoop-dee-doo. That was probably the goal. I mean, Kyle, if this feels like something you had to do just because we used to date-”

“We didn’t just used to date, Stan,” Kyle interrupted Stan with a very small voice and Stan wouldn’t even hear it through his self deprecating speech that spilled from him without control.

He didn’t mean to drop it all on Kyle like that and Stan wanted to just hit himself in the head with something very heavy, repeatedly over and over again, until he learns. But it’s so easy to fall back into Kyle, even if he didn’t know whether he’d catch him. Kyle’s presence lulled his brain, made him feel safe and comforted, made him forget he hadn’t seen his stunning face in a year, which was caused by his own fault, of course, and couldn’t fall back into their old habits just because some stupid fucking dream made him realize he was a bum loser still in love with his ex.

“Stan,” said Kyle, tone hard and definite to make Stan pay attention to him. “We didn’t just date! We didn’t, because before you were my boyfriend you were my best friend in the whole entire world. Do you think that just…goes away?”

Stan watched Kyle with bated breath. Kyle looked like he was barely holding back tears, the grip he was holding his phone in was tight enough to make his knuckles white. Kyle took a sharp inhale and looked away from Stan. Stan was watching him as he was trying to control his breathing, to calm himself down.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked instead, trying to change the topic rapidly, to ensure Kyle wouldn’t have a breakdown like his mom. It felt a little mind numbing that it was a possibility.

Kyle sighed and his shoulders visibly slumped as he leaned on his chair. “Well, that was back when I thought you were serious about what you texted me. So I don’t know anymore. I think I needed to be sure you were alive, with my own eyes, otherwise I wouldn’t believe it and work myself into a panic attack.”

“Serious about the birthday text?” Stan asked with furrowed brows, confused.

That was a wrong thing to say. Kyle looked back at him with an annoyed look, crossing his arms over his chest. It looked like he was trying to pull himself into a protective shell, as if being vulnerable and intimate with Stan again could have fatal consequences.

“No! The other thing! Fucking hell, Stan. But if you don’t even remember it, it’s very unlikely you actually meant it,” Kyle looked hurt at that, betrayed. Stan felt his stomach all in knots, anxious to know what other thing he had texted Kyle to cause him to spiral like this. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re okay and that’s all that matters to me, Stan. I don’t care if you meant it or not, I’m glad I get to talk to you. I..Stan. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

Stan did stop breathing at the confession and his eyes welled with tears. Undeserving. He is still so undeserving, Kyle is here and he’s making him angry and making him cry and this all still fucking sucks, but god, being explicitely told and hearing it from Kyle felt indescribable.

‘You meant the world to me’ comes back to Stan in a flash from the dream and he feels like he’s falling down, down, down deep in a hole, with no way back. Stan didn’t even want to consider it being true for Kyle. If Kyle stopped loving him it would be so much easier, but Stan doesn’t want that. Stan also wanted to stop living in a hue of sorts, not completely dead yet but not alive either. That made it easier, especially when he just tortured himself with the thought of Kyle forgetting about him. It felt insulting to Kyle, Stan couldn’t help it though.

“Kyle,” his voice broke and he felt tears stream down his cheeks, which felt only a little embarrassing. “I missed you, too. Everyday.”

Kyle sniffled and with his other hand he bravely went for Stan’s one and held it tightly in his own. Stan wanted to weep at the feeling, of having his hand held like that, in a desperate hold, trying to convey all the things left unsaid in the air.

“I had a dream about you, I think,” Kyle looked at him curiously at that, his thumb caressing slow circles on Stan’s hand. “I was like, hyperaware of being dead, but at first I thought I survived and was pissed. I was in this strange house, lying in a bed with satin pillowcases.”

Kyle gave him a secret smile upon hearing about the pillowcases. He knew what he was thinking about and Stan felt giddy, having a moment like this with Kyle, when they were thinking of the same exact thing. He cleared his throat.

“Anyways, I didn’t recognize where I was, so I went on and stumbled upon a curly redheaded boy. I knew it felt a little odd, and even if somewhere deep inside I knew it wasn’t you I still called him by your name. Turns out it wasn’t you, of course, but the kid, who by the way looked terrifyingly just like you, told me you were downstairs. When I went there I had a full on identity crisis and was convinced I was in a parallel universe, because you were there. But older.”

He scrunched his nose at that adorably and gave a small chuckle. “Parallel universes. Overrated much? Also do you usually think so much in dreams?”
Stan laughed at his reaction, proud of himself for knowing just how distasteful Kyle’d find it. It felt like deep down he’ll always know Kyle to the bone, he loved him so much there wasn’t any possibility of him forgetting a single detail about the other boy.

“No, I don’t. This whole thing felt freakishly real. But yeah, turns out we were married and had two kids together, the boy was our son, it was so freaky. Especially with how real it felt, I was afraid they’d found out I was fake and wasn’t the older Stan and they’d cast me away.”

“Awh, poor Stan,” Kyle grew even bolder than before, because he leaned to run a hand through his head. Stan thought he was going to die. “That must’ve felt so scary, poor thing. What was I like?”

“Hot,” he answered immediately without thinking and Kyle barked out a laugh. Stan’s eyes widened and he almost did hit himself. It was mortifying, Stan was lucky Kyle was humouring him. A hand in his hair and he loses his marbles, Jesus fucking Christ, it was embarrassing just how much he felt like a teenager. But Kyle didn’t seem to mind all that much, if the way he slid his hand back into Stan’s one said anything about that. “Shit, sorry, um. Yeah, that was the first thing I thought, kinda. Besides that you were.. just. You. I felt like a piece of shit and kept crying there on poor older you and you just held me. Told me some stuff I needed to hear. I told him I loved him like million of times, man, he must’ve been so confused-”

Kyle tensed. Stan tensed. Fuck, fuck. He blabbed his way into an uncomfortable situation like this, fuck. Christ, he’s never felt so humiliated. He refused to look Kyle’s way and straightened up on the bed. He let go of Kyle’s hand and looked at the door. That wasn’t something he wanted Kyle to know. Okay, maybe it was, but not now, not when it wasn’t established that Kyle was also pathetically in love with him back, to make the ordeal less mortifying.

He made it so easy to fall back. Back into a custom as old as time, to how it was before they started stealing kisses and their words held such enormous weight, to a time where they’d been each other’s everything without it dooming them yet. Kyle always made it easy. Stan almost felt like they were teenagers again and almost forgot he was on a hospital bed after trying to kill himself.

“‘I will always love you’. That’s what your other message said. You wished me happy birthday, then you sent this. Or well, that’s how I deciphered it, with the spelling mistakes and all, but it was pretty clear,” Kyle spoke after a while and Stan winced, having no memory of texting such a thing. “Did you mean it, Stan? Do you mean it?”

Stan groaned and pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat that formed there, while trying to calm himself down to not work himself into a panic attack. His stomach once more made itself known with a dull pain and some more cramps from anxiety. “Fuck, that’s so embarassing. I really didn’t mean to text you that, let alone tell you all this, Jesus.”

“Answer me, Stanley,” Kyle’s tone came dangerously close to being a begging one, his voice desperate and he was once more on the verge of tears. Stan didn’t want to. Answer him, that is. Not when there was an option of being brutally rejected. He hoped Kyle wouldn’t do that to him now, that he’d let him down easy.

“Jesus, Kyle. What does it matter if I do?”

“It matters a great deal to me, thank you very much. It matters because I thought you stopped and that made me want to tear my skin off every single day since the day you broke up with me,” Stan looked for any indication on Kyle’s face that anything he just said is a lie. Kyle looked back at him, green eyes glistening with unshed tears and his lips narrowed into a thin line, Stan knew he was biting them from the inside.

Stan was suddenly afraid that he’s never woken up from his nap before. That this is all a cruel dream he’s gonna wake up from, just like he woke up from the other dimension of good luck slushies and the scent of Kyle enveloping Stan’s whole world. He needed to be sure Kyle was real, flesh and bones, next to him. Stan reached for the other boy’s hand again and squeezed tightly, letting out a small sigh of relief when Kyle squeezed back.

“I’ve regretted it,” the admission felt heavy on his tongue, as if it stripped him bare and he laid there naked in front of Kyle. “Everyday. I didn’t know whether I regretted ever getting with you and ruining that preciousness between us, the friendship that was the base for everything - or whether I regretted letting you go and not letting you like help me or something. I don’t know. I just..I felt like I never deserved you in the first place.”

“Oh, Stan,” said Kyle, voice wet. He never let go of his hand. “You were more than I ever hoped for. And I’ll never forgive myself for letting you shut me out like this. You know, you’re so much more than this, this..feeling that makes you feel like shit. I wish you could see yourself from my eyes. I wish you didn’t forget about that.”

He knew he should’ve expected this, maybe he hoped he could prevent it, but it was all for nothing, since he was crying again. Stan still heard that little voice at the back of his head that Kyle had to say this, he didn’t mean it and he was just trying to make him feel better because he almost died, it makes the pity come in sooner and heavier when a person almost dies, but he tried to suppress it. Tried to tell it to shut the fuck up for once and let him have this.

“I’m scared, Kyle, I’m so scared. I feel like I can’t breathe without you, Ky,” he confessed, his dignity long gone. Stan was a few minutes away from pressing him so close he’ll never leave again. He was, very barely so, holding back from doing so. “I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to ruin your life. And everything inside me is screaming that it is in me and I can’t escape it and I don’t want that for you, but I can’t. I want you, Kyle. More than anything in the world.”

“Stan,” Kyle poured so much love into the pronunciation of his name, voice low and intimate, it felt like Stan didn’t need to be told anything else. “I want to be there for you. Let me decide whether I want to get hurt by you or if I want to ruin my life. I don’t care about anything else, I just want you. We’ll figure out everything else.”

They fell silent after that for a while, the silence that filled the room not an uncomfortable one nor an awkward one, it was just that silence that allowed them to think this all through. Stan, albeit not being officially told so, considered his feelings still reciprocated, as unbelievable as it felt to him. That could be marked as established from the heavy conversation that was behind them.

He didn’t know what it meant for them now. Stan felt another heavy conversation at the tip of his tongue and a bone deep exhaustion arose in the depths of his being at the thought of that. He wanted to ignore all that was to happen after he left the wretched hospital room.

Kyle probably wanted to talk about something unpleasant as well, if biting his lips was as much of an indication as Stan thought it to be. One of them had to break the silence, as comforting it was to be in one.

Fortune was on his side for once, a nurse came to a room, telling Kyle visiting hours were to end in an hour, then turned to Stan and explained that she was going to administer an analgesic via IV, since he had previously complained to his mother of a headache and an underlying stomach ache. Apparently that was common after having a gastric lavage, as he’d learned was done to him after the attempt. Kyle visibly paled at the reminder of why Stan was staying at the hospital.

“I had a dream,” spoke Kyle after the nurse had retreated from his room, his voice strained and his eyes filled with tears still. “The night of my birthday as well. I wish it was half as pleasant as yours was. But it was the single most terrifying thing I went through. It felt horridly real as well. Your mother had called me the morning after my birthday and told me in tears that you’ve died.”

Stan hadn’t seen Kyle cry like that in years, probably Kyle has trained himself to not look weak in front of him anymore, since Stan needed so much of his support and it made him sick, sick, sick. It felt liberating to see him breakdown, like a new page was turned for them. Still it made Stan feel like an iron fist clenched around his heart in a staggering grip.

“It felt so real, Stan. When I woke up I was so confused as to why I wasn’t in my room at home in South Park where I ended up falling asleep in tears after…anyways. When Kevin said you were in the hospital, it got me moving. I didn’t want to stall anymore. I don’t want to lose you, Stan. Please don’t make me lose you.”

He wrapped his arms around Kyle to the best of his abilities, mindful of the IV drip connected to the cannula in his hand, and let him cry into his shoulder. Stan knew words wouldn’t do justice to anything he was feeling right now. He hoped Kyle would read between the lines and recognize the firm promise to not go anywhere in the soft touches on his back.

“Mom wants me to get locked up,” said Stan finally, which led to Kyle springing free from his embrace to look him in the eye. “In a psych ward, I mean. Shelley, too.”

“And you?” Kyle asked carefully, raising his hand to rest on Stan’s cheek. “What do you think about it? I know how you felt before.”

Stan hadn’t been prepared to be asked that. No one had asked how he felt about being sent to the headshrinker, even though his mom had given him space to think it through himself. Otherwise he’d have to go live with her and she’d drive herself insane worrying about him. He didn’t want that.

And he did recognize he might actually need that. Crazy or not.

“I think she’s right. I probably do need it,” Stan ended up admitting with his head bowed, aware of the state of the feeling of shame deep in the marrow of his bones, afraid to say out loud just how heavy the baggage is, still unsure whether Kyle truly wanted to help him carry it.

Kyle held his chin tightly with two of his fingers, lifting Stan’s head to make him look into his eyes. “It’s okay, Stan. It’s the first step. It must be scary to you, but don’t worry. We’ll be there. I’ll be there.”

It was a promise, firm as his own was; Kyle wasn’t going anywhere. His hand traveled back from his chin to his cheek, caressing it with so much love Stan nearly melted into the touch.

“So you will come visit me? To the looney bin,” Stan asked with a wet chuckle and received a playful swat at his shoulder. The question felt heavier than he let it be known - it felt more like so will you have me, will you have me even if i’m a damaged goods, which he felt wouldn’t fly with Kyle so he hadn’t voiced it. But that’s what hung unanswered in the air, really.

“Everyday, if I have to,” said Kyle in retaliation and Stan smiled at him and felt the weight at his chest liberated at last. He hadn’t felt a relief like this in a while, in forever.

“Come on, your fancy medicine school won’t let you out for so long without a sacrifice,” reminded Stan with another chuckle and Kyle just shrugged carelessly.

“I’ll manage,” came a firm response and he once more slid his hand back into Stan’s to intertwine their fingers together. “We’ll figure it all out.”

That felt like a promise as well - like something tangible to hold onto for now. A solid base under his feet that felt like it let all the clear air back into his lungs again. They’re not where they once were of course, thank heavens for that, but it was a step forward to get them moving in the right direction. Stan felt very hopeful about their ability to keep their promises.

“We’ll figure it out,” he agreed.

His eyelids felt heavy, the exhaustion came striking again suddenly like a lightning before a huge storm into the quiet night. Stan told Kyle he was going to sleep and won’t be much fun to be around. Kyle just shook his head, telling him to get some rest and that he will let his mom back in.

When Kyle rose to his feet Stan clutched at his t-shirt to stop him from leaving just yet. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

The corners of Kyle’s mouth lifted once again into a soft smile and he stroked the forearm of Stan’s hand that was holding his t-shirt. “Of course, if you want me to.”

Stan just nodded and let go slowly, knowing there was no reality, universe nor dimension or whatever in which he’d refused. In each and every one of them he loved Kyle more than anything.

Of course, nothing was resolved, really. He still had to get his shit together and even though it felt very anxiety inducing and stressful, to think of his life out of this hospital room, the knowledge people had his back helped. Even if his inside was screaming otherwise, that viscous voice in his fucking head. For once people in his life were a little louder.

Nothing was resolved. But Stan felt like it was a step forward and after so many of them being backward, it felt like a win, at least a little one. He felt like he could breathe, after so long.

The sleep overtook him without any obstacles and he welcomed the dreamless slumber with open arms.