Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Kyle, come on dude. It’s been what- four or five years? And you’re still being a pussy about it?” Cartman snorted, slamming his hands onto the table.

Kyle stared at him from across the shared- two person table, his eyes bored and practically shutting. He did not plan for his first day back to end up like.. this. He expected to just hide out in his Mom’s house for the entirety of it, smoke pot out of his window just like he used to. Not- eating lunch with Eric fucking Cartman.

But here he was.

"Four years." Kyle muttered.

The brunette's eyes narrowed.

“You’re the one who ended your faggy relationship, get the fuck over it. I’m not one to talk- but Jesus Christ, can you get a grip?” Cartman grunted. “He’s gotten a life- and what, you’re famous for hooking up with women at a club?”

“He hasn’t gotten a life, it was one album.” Kyle bit his lip. “Besides, I actually have a job, for ya information.”

“Which is?”

“I’m a Writer, Jackass.” Kyle rolled his eyes- narrowing them as they came still. “And not to flatter myself, but a pretty good one at that. Or at least that’s what my readers tell me.”

“Right, and how many times have you written for somebody.. relevant?” Cartman snorted, swirling his paper cup of coffee on the wooden table.

“Multiple times, actually. I used ta write articles for this channel up in Jersey.” Kyle sighed dramatically.

“So you do.. music as well?”

Kyle’s eyes widened. What the fuck was he trying to get at?

“I mean.. I’ve done it.” Kyle muttered. “Why?”

“Because Stan is always talking about wishing he had a writer.” Cartman grinned. “I mean, a whole team- but.. holy shit, this might be your faggy calling.”

“Do you have to use the word “fag” in every remark ya make? Because I’m not even gay.” Kyle huffed, pinching the bridge of his tanned- slightly freckled nose.

“But you don’t like women.”

“I don’t like anybody.” Kyle corrected. “Let’s not get into this topic, please?”

Kyle was just about to speak again, maybe knock some more sense into the Anti-Semitic, Homophobic asshole- but that was when he realized.

He had heard the opening of the coffee shop doors, sure- the jingle from the bells hanging off the door was barely heard over the chatter of the dozens of people. But like any other normal person, he ignored it. It was a coffee shop for gods sake, who wasn’t going to be walking in? People came in and out every second- it was one of the three Coffee Shops in town.

“Kyle, you should probably listen to fat ass, or me, ya know.” He cheesed, obviously poking fun at Kyle’s accent.

Kenny McCormick.

Sharon pulled the Noirette into an embrace- making his lips curl up awkwardly- his left cheek showing his indent in which people called “a dimple”(he called it a battle scar, because he wasn’t born with it.).“Oh, baby! You’ve gotten so big-”

“Mom, you’re going to kill him.” Shelley hissed.

The mother let out a sigh, stepping back from her son. She took in the tall- monstrously tall, actually- boy- the baggy, familiar jacket making him seem just slightly wider than he actually was.

“Hun, we should probably get those jeans hemmed- come here-”

“It’s fine, mom.” Stan groaned, tugging his beanie down just slightly further- making his bangs arch out of the fabric. “It’s just the style.”

Thankfully, his first day back home wasn’t too terrible- yet he still had a bit longer to withhold due to the fact he had just landed- just came back to this shitty, tiny- redneck town in the valley dip of the mountains. He had a place up in Denver- which was arguably not much different, but it was the city, not the horribly under-developed trash of South Park.

It was a tiny studio apartment- right off campus of C.U Boulder, and if you didn’t guess- it was the same one he’d kept since college. It had seen him through hell and back, drunk nights- relapses, hook-ups gone wrong, terrible hangovers- everything possible. But, it was his. And, it was slightly far enough away to where nobody bothered visiting him.

The downside to having his own place was that he got too full of himself- and trashed it. He could sort through things for hours, and still wouldn’t find what exactly he was looking for. But- it was still his, so fuck what anybody else says. That Stan was done for, he locked him up- and now, this new Stan- he didn’t care. He literally did not care, because everything was shitty anyway, right?

So eventually, after spacing out for the last half of what his mom was saying- probably rambling on about how big he’d gotten, how proud she was- all the bullshit that became lies later on in the night- in the depths of the nightly argument. He made it up the stairs to his room, landing onto the sunken in mattress.

This was exactly why he wanted to just stay in Denver, but unfortunately, his apartment is flooded, and there is no say in how long until it’ll be cleaned.

He wanted to be in the bed that he had bought, not one that was provided for him. He wanted to prove that he could do shit by himself. Prove Kyle wrong.

But deep in his heart, he knows that he wouldn’t be this desperate to prove anybody else wrong. It was just Kyle. And to be honest, he wasn’t even trying to prove him wrong, he was trying to impress him.

He wasn’t denying the fact that he was still in love with Kyle anymore. He stopped denying it in Sophomore year of college, when he drunkenly stalked Kyle’s Facebook- searching for his face- but instead, he was stuck staring at the pictures of his debates- him holding a grant, that shiny smile he carried- where his cheeks just slightly scrunched over his eyes.

Fuck, he was getting ahead of himself.

The point was, he still loved Kyle- and everybody knew that. Like, everybody. Including his mom. And that’s why he hoped she wouldn’t pull any stupid shit, knowing that Kyle’s family lived right next door- and their moms were best friends.

She better not have said a fucking word to Sheila.

“So, Kyle, How’s it like up in Jersey now?” Sheila asked, covering her mouth as she chewed.

The sound of metal clacking against the glass plates made Kyle almost cry, he’d been so used to the plastic utensils- the paper plates- god- he might’ve actually missed home.

“It’s.. quiet.” Kyle muttered. He wasn’t lying- but he also was. he rarely went to parties, he went to clubs. And when he went to clubs, it was quiet- because the alcohol consumed him. He wasn’t usually one to get drunk on his own, it was only at big functions. It was because it reminded him too much of Stan- always going out to parties, being reckless- getting black-out drunk- so he silenced it.

“Really? Bubbe- maybe you just need to go out a little bit more.” Sheila narrowed her eyes, offering a sweet smile.

“I’m fine, parties aren’t really ma thing.” Kyle shrugged.

He almost saw Sheila grin a little bit- knowing that all of her “restricting” from back in High School had worked. But obviously, it did not. He could still see the flashing lights of Tolkien’s living room- like he was still in the moment.

“So, Ike. How’s High School? Tell ya brother, I’m sure he’d like to hear how is old school is doin’.”

“It’s uh- It’s fine.” Ike groaned, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table. “I have Mr. Garrison.”

“Oh god.” Kyle rolled his eyes. Mr Garrison, the dude who used being gay as an excuse to do… explicit.. highly inappropriate things in front of literal children.

“He said that I’m-” Ike rose his hands to make air quotes. “Way smarter than my faggy brother.”

“Ike!” Sheila slapped his hand down, while he shrugged.

“You said to tell him about High School!”

Kyle let out a snort. It was all the same, the same as he’d left it. Sheila being overly sensitive- Mr. Garrison being a weirdo, his dad being as silent and observing as ever- the TV playing a random channel in the background- the cold.

It was home.

Yet one thing was missing.

And he didn’t want to admit who it was.

All he knew was that he had a long road ahead of him here- back in South Park- it was going to be a long journey trying to adjust, back in the place he felt he didn’t belong.

Especially with Stan Marsh.

The air was cold, his breathing was ragged- the bottle was warm beneath his finger tips.

“Marsh, you alright?” A voice came from the side- the static noise of footsteps seemingly getting louder.

“I’m fine.” Stan slurred. He was fine. He wasn’t drunk.

“You don’t look like it. How about we go back home?” The man muttered, yet it sounded wrong- it sounded squeezed- forced.

“I’m fine.” He repeated. He wasn’t drunk. He was Fine.

“Marsh, I just said that you don’t look fine.” He grunted.

“I’m fine.” The noirette said once again, taking the bottle back to his lips with trembling hands. He felt the last drop run clean onto his lips- then he threw the bottle- the sound of glass shattering- the world finally snapping back from that static, blurry- grainy state.

“Find your own way home, dude.”

Stan wasn’t drunk, and he hadn’t taken anything. He hadn’t taken triple his dose of Prozac. Everything was okay. He was right behind the bar. He was fine.

He let his eyes close.

Convincing himself never seemed to work. Stan Marsh was in fact not okay.

The last time he had that dream was a year ago, after having it repeated in his head for two years- one of them being before it even occurred in real life. Which by the way, was scary as fuck. His brain predicted an event happening a year before it was real.

He couldn’t remember the details of what happened before that- he did remember the man, though. It was one of his.. acquaintances.

Rubbing his eyes, Stan grabbed his phone from under his pillow- because he knew it sure as hell was not this dark at a normal waking hour.

With zero surprise, the time read 04:37 AM. For Stan, it was normal- Hell, it was late- usually he’d wake up around two, depending on how long he’d stayed out for. Other nights he slept, slept for way too long, meaning he was rushing out of the house- barely dressed, just to make it to the bar- spend four hours a night shaking liquor in a cocktail mixer- the ice cold metal burning at his fingertips.

Stan let out a soft curse under his breath, shifting on the creaky old mattress- which he barely fit in- now on his knees- trying to find his way out of the tangled mess he’d gotten into with his blanket.

Once he did, he carefully slipped out of his room- finding himself in the dimly lit hallway, passing across the hall to his bathroom, and quietly shutting the door. He flicked the light on- making his eyes burn just a bit- yet he adjusted rather quick when he saw his reflection.

His eye makeup was smeared, making him look like an absolute douche bag, he was breaking out- mostly on his chin and forehead, where his acne usually was- and worst of all, he looked hollow- he looked sick. yet, he maintained his figure- he wasn’t going to get sucked back into the whole “two fingers in, press down” thing again. He hadn’t done that for weeks.

Yet he still found himself excited when his viewers said he looked like he lost weight.

Maybe it was just him losing off the tiny stomach he’d gotten while at college- all the beer chugging finally getting to him- or maybe it was just his lack of calorie intake. Maybe he really was just sick, and he needed to admit that.

But like a Marsh always did, they were stubborn- and didn’t- wouldn’t give in.

Stan found his thoughts gazing back to the thought of eating- and he tried to force himself to push that away. He didn’t feel full before- he felt hungry, at that- but now he just felt- fucking disgusting.

He glanced back at his reflection one last time- trying to find the glimmer in his eyes- but he couldn’t. The dull blue eyes were forever rusted, and he wasn’t sure he’d find the light in them again.

The touch of the metal handle to the faucet made Stan flinch- it was freezing cold- and then- he pulled it in- the sound of water rushing through to the bowl and out the drain.

His hand shook as he pulled his fingers to his mouth- spreading his lips open.

Fuck South Park, fucking being home. Was all he could think.

Fuck Kyle Broflovski. Fuck being here. As he gagged on his own fingers- the acid rushing up his throat- his knuckles scraping against the harsh bone of his teeth.

Couldn’t he have just died? As he hunched over- the orange bile floating into the running tap water- then down the drain.

Stan let out a shaky choke- the string of saliva connecting his fingers to his lips snapping in half- falling onto his chin.

His stomach just hurt worse.

Kyle couldn’t sleep.

It was four in the morning, and he’d been awake- staring at the ceiling for what, two hours? he’d tossed- he’d turned- he’d tried everything to fall back asleep, yet nothing worked. So, it was just him- and his thoughts.

He tried to think happy thoughts, like the nights he’d spent eating watery chicken flavored ramen straight out of the pot, not able to have paper bowls- just because he’d forgotten to savor some of his budget for the week to buy more. He usually wouldn’t keep the water in, but now he did- having figured out that the “broth” was a bit filling, just adding on to the un-filling, sad noodles.

But to be honest, that wasn’t really happy.

What about the time he’d hooked up with that girl from his Creative Writing class? That was- nevermind. That was.. weird, if that was even the word to describe it. She wanted more- Kyle didn’t, and it became this whole thing. It was just supposed to be one night, he was drunk- and if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have even done it. Yet she thought otherwise, and tried framing Kyle for “using her.” Sure, nobody gave a fuck- but it still made Kyle feel uncomfortable. Who the fuck even does that?

Or his first time drinking gin? That was also a weird experience, yet it wasn’t a bad one. it was more on the good leaning side. It wasn’t a bad drink, to be honest- it was just too strong for his liking. Now beer- beer was what he’d choose anyday.

To be honest, looking back- Kyle was realizing that he’d spent most of College zoned out- out of it. He was either drunk, sleeping- tired- or studying, really no time left for making friends, hanging out. He’d lost most of the weight he gained from playing basketball back in high school, yet you could argue that he was still lean- because he definitely wasn’t skinny.

Maybe looking back at High School would be more entertaining for his brain.

Giving his first time to Stan, that was.. god, he hated admitting this, but it was fun. He didn’t mind it now, and he definitely did not care back then. It was his eighteenth birthday- the end of Junior year- one year into their relationship. They were being stupid at one of their nightly sleepovers at the farm, play fighting- and things led to another- like how making out led to Stan asking for consent.

Looking back made his heart flutter, just a tiny bit- maybe sending a throb somewhere it shouldn’t, but for the most part- it just made him smile. He and Stan used to be- so close- so happy, and now- he hadn’t talked to him since that April night in Senior year- the one where Kyle broke up with him, and ruined everything.

He had to admit. It was stupid, and he fucked up. But could you blame him? Stan was- he was a mess, a real fucking mess. He wasn’t sober- and he didn’t know why it’d took him so long to realize that Stan wasn’t okay mentally, either.

The breaking point was when Stan started becoming avoidant. He wouldn’t talk to his friends, not even the closest ones- Kenny, Cartman- Craig- he wouldn’t even talk to Kyle anymore, he’d just stay in his room- almost never sober, almost never clean. He’d relapsed, and was just- a bad person.

Kyle couldn’t take it, and once he realized that Stan wasn’t taking any of the sense that he tried putting into him- he just- he said it, he said he was done. he said he couldn’t be around somebody who could barely stand up straight, he couldn’t be around somebody who only hurt himself and the people around him. He called him an asshole, a loser- a dick- every name in the book. And then he left- with tears in his eyes, he left- driving away from the farm for the last time.

And that was it. Just like that, he’d left Stan. When Kenny told him off, tried to argue- Kyle just blocked him out, because he thought it was for the best. He didn’t know how Stan was doing, didn’t know if he graduated- he just didn’t care. He completely blocked Stan Marsh out of his life.

It wasn’t until college started that he started letting thoughts slip through the barricade- and eventually, all he could think about was if he was okay.

Making alternate accounts on every social media platform just to see Stan, his posts- how his life was going, all the way up until a couple of months ago- where he saw it. Linked to his Instagram bio, a Facebook page- labeled Stan Marsh, yet it had the term “Music Artist” under it, and his description?

“debut album out now”

And that’s when he realized, Stan Marsh had succeeded.

And when he heard from Cartman that Stan was making his way back down for a few weeks, while Kyle was already packing up his apartment- he hesitated shooting himself.

Because what the fuck did you mean he’d have to see Stan fucking Marsh again?