CHAPTER 1: In which the Protagonist, inebriated, turns for Help and is met with Disdain
"For the love of Joshua, Stanley Marsh, we've been through this!"
Staring at him from the other side of the doorframe was an angry Jewish mother, red hair flying about and – oh no, wait, it was Kyle.
"Whaaattttttt?"
"You're drunk."
"I'm nooooooooooot."
"Fine, you've been 'self-medicating' again."
"I've told youuu, I've not had anyyyyy," he drawled. And then he puked. Right on Kyle's slippers. Shit.
"For fuck's sake, Stan, you should be happy my mum's not at home." Kyle sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, before turning and fetching a bag of sawdust and a bucket.
Ike stared on from the stairwell, confused and slightly disgusted by the increasingly potent stench of alcohol and stomach juices coming from the door. "You sure know how to make an entrance, Stan," he called, before retreating upstairs.
Stan wasn't sure if he was going to 'make an entrance again', but Kyle returned (notably barefoot) with a bucket to pre-empt any further home decoration. He dumped a little too much sawdust onto Stan's chunderings and then patted down on it with some toilet tissue. He stood up, tutted, and walked back into the house, leaving Stan head-first in the large blue (mercifully still empty) bucket on the front step of the house. A pause, then:
"I guess you're coming in?"
Stan heaved up from his knees, and dragged the bucket in with him, somehow managing to avoid the congealing piles of wood dust on the floor, and slammed the door behind him.
"Sorryyyyyyyyyyy."
"Just get your sorry ass up to my room, we need to talk."
Ike promptly came to Stan at the sound of his brother's voice to help him up the stairs.
"Stan," the Canadian said, "leave the bucket."
Stan paused, then turned around and set the bucket deliberately on the floor. Ike helped him waddle up the stairs and left him at the door of Kyle's room. Stan stood there blankly, looking vaguely into the redhead's bedroom, before Kyle once again snapped him out of his inebriated stupor:
"Get in."
Stan stumbled in and fell onto Kyle's bed. Kyle looked distastefully at the drooling pile of Marsh that now occupied his mattress, but said nothing on the matter. At least, not for a minute or two. But when he began to hear snoring, he finally had had enough.
"Jesus, Stan! Pull yourself together!" he yelled, throwing the first thing to hand at his friend.
"Fuck!" Stan responded with a mix of shock, pain and anger in his voice, as a calculus textbook ricocheted off of his sweat-decked forehead. "Jeeeeeeesus Kyle, calm doooooooooooown."
"Dude. You're drinking way too much at the moment! You've got to control yourself!"
"Kyyyyyyyyyyyyyle…"
"Don't fucking say a word. I've read you like a book Stanley, and you know it."
Stan, surprisingly (even to himself), stayed silent. He fumed. He didn't like being called Stanley – it felt stuffy and wrong. Kyle knew this, and so he continued to do it. Stan also didn't like how Kyle was always right. But hey, when everything is literally turning to shit, sometimes you have to have a little drink. Stan took a few breaths and steadied himself.
"Kyyyyyle, I neeeeeed it."
"What you need is a different way to cope with everything."
"It's the only thing that woooooooorks!"
"It's the only think you've found that works." Kyle responded. Stan fell silent again, and his face contorted into a babyish frown.
Kyle sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. Stan smirked a little; Kyle was becoming a parody of himself. This final year of school had made him grouchier, more temperamental, more impatient, smarter, funnier, kinder – more of every notable personality trait that set him apart from the rest of the idiots in the town. Stan began to chuckle. He found that quite funny.
Kyle, who had been rooting through his desk drawers, turned with confusion to face his friend. He couldn't help but crack a small smile. Stan noticed, and abruptly stopped chuckling with a cough, which in turn made Kyle frown.
Silence. Then Kyle went and said it:
"What's up, Stan?"
Stan paused. He couldn't say. He knew he couldn't say. So many things were up, but he couldn't say any of them. He breathed again.
"Let's not do this, Kyle. Let me just be here." He didn't slur that. He was serious.
Kyle sighed, but refrained from pinching his nose for the third time. Stan noticed, and all of a sudden his eyes welled up. He kicked his sneakers off, flung himself around and curled up on his side of the bed, facing the wall. Kyle's face fell from disdain to hurt, and he turned to leave, to find Ike. Stan heard him go and the tears in his eyes began to fall. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his stomach hurt, and his limbs felt like lead. He cradled himself in his own tears, and slowly began to drift off. As the numbness of sleep came over him, he could faintly hear at the edges of his perception Kyle and his brother shouting at the other end of the hall.
