Summery: It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs

AN: GAAAAAHHH. This took a while. MY SCAPEGOAT/ESCUSE FOR EVERYTHING: School. I rewrote this chapter a couple of times because I just couldn't get it right…Kyle's POV next chapter!

Warnings: Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs

Stan:

"Marsh!, You son of a bitch! Pay attention!"

Let's face it. He wasn't paying a single ounce of attention to what was happening around him in the street. His knuckles gripped tightly around the steering wheel, his foot place gently on the brakes – a car horn blared loudly in his ears as a signal from a fellow driver who was dissatisfied with his previous actions. His habit to make sharp and uninhibited lane changes that lacked the chivalrous turn signal made him very unpopular on the road. Stan blinked, jerking the car slightly while he jerked himself back from the clouds.

What had he been thinking about? Suddenly, he couldn't remember.

"Damn." Kenny breathed, relaxing after having tensed in the passenger seat and quickly reached for the seat belt, choosing to fasten it after all, now that he realized the potential danger he was in, "do you mind, Stan? I would really prefer to make it home alive, please."

Stan presented his courtesy chuckle for Kenny's smart remark, shifting slightly in the leather seat of his dad's silver SUV – it was a new car, believe it or not; granted it lacked the new car smell due to the countless visits to the drive-thru that Cartman demanded and the shiny coat of flawless paint was covered by a thin layer of dust. His dad use to pay him to wash the car but Stan had lost interest in being paid petty change a long time ago, regardless of the fact that those household chores are his only source of any type of an income. He was too damn apathetic to keep a steady job.

"Don't miss the turn, fag – and why the fuck are the windshield wipers on?" Kenny wasn't lying about the windshield wipers. They were on – they were always on – and looked decently out of place in the sunny June weather. Stan always saw the drivers of passing cars double take in curiosity.

"I like them on. I like the noise they make."

"That's the gayest thing I've heard, dude." Kenny replied with a slight smile, crossing his arms as he gazed out the window at the passing mountainous scenery of South Park, Colorado, "You're so retarded."

It wasn't like Kenny hasn't driven with him before. In the two years that he's had his driver's license, he's given all of his friends innumerable rides and they've all seen his peculiar driving habits and dangerous antics – but unlike his other friends who eventually grew use to the sudden turns of the wheel, the pushing-speed-limit rate of acceleration, and the windshield wipers; Kenny never did and was determined to comment to his every move as if he'd just been freshly introduced, like this was his first time with Stan. So, in an act of retaliation to Kenny's refusing to grow use to his habits, Stan grew use to Kenny's questioning of his habits.

"Your haircut is really ugly." Stan said in insouciance, his eyes glued on the tail of the red sedan in front of him.

"Yours is too, buddy."

When Stan's alarm clock had gone off this morning at 6:30AM, he knew the right thing to do would be to get up, shower, dress, eat breakfast and then go to school. This had been the right thing to do for the past 12 years of his life and what he had done for just as long. The petulant and repetitive buzzing filled his dark bedroom and he had sat up, a mess of jet black hair appearing from underneath a pile of twisted and lumpy comforters. With his cheeks flushed from slumber, he had squinted and blinked for a moment at his screaming clock, as if daring it to force him from his soothing bed and proceed with his morning routine. He dared it to make its move and when it did nothing but buzz, he bitterly slammed his fist on its plastic head and it, having lost the battle, was quiet once again. The right thing to do, he thought as he relaxed at the sudden silence that surrounded him, would be to go to school. With a gentle ringing in his ears from the absence of sound, he had gathered an armful of his doughy blankets and poured them over him as he nestled back down on his downy pillows. The right thing to do just wasn't as alluring as this. He didn't get back up until noon.

Stan glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, the humming of the engine filling his head. It was 5:00PM on a Thursday. He heard Kenny yawn beside him in the passenger seat and he, soon after, followed suit. This had been one of those warmer days.

What had woke him up at noon, had been his phone – the vibrating noise that came from his bedside table. With a shaky hand and his eyes still closed, he clawed blindly for it and when he finally managed to grab it, he flipped it open with his thumb, bringing it to his ear – the buttons were cold against his cheeks and he tried to sound as awake as possible as he muttered his hollow, "hey."

"Hey, it's me." Cartman, Stan thought. That fat bastard. "Where the fuck were you today?"

Still with his eyes closed, Stan rolled over as he stretched with one arm above his head, "home. I decided I wasn't in the mood for that bullshit Gov. class." He could hear the bustling of the Cafeteria in the background – it must be lunchtime – and Cartman's loud breathing into the mouth piece which happened when he was in motion – probably walking – during phone conversations.

"Pussy. You're a fucking pussy, you bitch." The teasing anger that Cartman exuded during his dialogue – he'd grown out of his genuine sadistic gesticulation as well as most of his baby fat; kept his violent sense of humor and malicious forms of interaction but changed into a more stocky body type. "The rest of us are here, you pussy, suffering like real men. If this were war, you'd be the pussy soldier who shot himself in his own pussy foot because he can't fucking handle the emotional turmoil because he's a pussy, Pussy."

"You're just pissed because you didn't come up with the genius plan of sleeping in and ditching like I did, Cartman." Stan sneered into the phone, raising his head a little and finally opening his eyes. The sun was pouring in through his windows. "But anyways, why'd you call?" Cartman never called to just talk – after all these years, Stan and everyone else, had come to realize this.

"Kenny's got something to say but he's got Down's syndrome and forgot his cell at home – hold on."

Stan moved his phone to the other ear.

"Dude?" Kenny's baritone voice was a change from Cartman's deep and raspy one.

"Yeah?"

"Oh dude." Kenny said loudly, trying to talk over the background noise – Stan heard Token say something he couldn't make out, quickly followed my Clyde's rambunctious and slightly overconfident laughter. "Listen, my mom's making me go get a haircut after school. Wanna give me a ride to the other side of town?" Butters squealed, Shut up, you guys! That's not true! "I really hate that Asian guy who's been cutting my hair – he doesn't know what he's doing." Kenny always cared too much about the way he looked for someone who constantly proclaimed that he didn't give a shit about superficial appearances.

Stan breathed loudly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with one hand, "Whatever. Pick you at your house. Four o' clock."

Kenny rolled down the passenger side window, his new haircut blowing slightly in the breeze, and then rolled it back up. "This town sucks – everyone here sucks." The window came back down and then back up again. "I hate this stupid town so much." Again, the blonde boy pushed the switch and the window opened. "I can't wait to get my ass out of here." Then it closed.

"Stop that." Stan demanded, turning into the street to their neighborhood.

"Fine," Kenny breathed, taking his finger off of the window control switch and crossing his arms again.

But Stan wasn't talking about the window when he told Kenny to stop – he was talking about what Kenny had said: that hopeful thinking about leaving this town. It was pointless to think that it was possible. For one reason or another, no one seems to ever get out of this fucking mountain town. No one. He pulled to a stop at the red light. The driver in the car next to him stuck his head out of the car and shouted across the lane, "Hey man, you're windshield wipers are on!" Kenny rolled down his window half way – "I know, bro, that's what I fucking told him!" – and rolled then back up again.

Kenny had been wrong about the barbershop across town and it became blatantly obvious as soon as the woman took the first snip of the scissors – she had cut too much of Kenny's hair off. "That's too short," the blonde blurted, almost nervously. She pulled the scissors from his head and stood back for a second, examining his head as she tugged on one strand of her own thick hair. "Well, kid," she replied after a second of contemplation, "it's too late now. Don't worry though, it's gonna look great." Kenny had smiled meekly at her with bedroom brown eyes, as if he hadn't been quiet convinced by her unwavering and equally 'powerful' argument but said nothing else, momentarily submissive with the polka dotted drape around him.

Stan had sat in the neighboring barber chair, swiveling it back and forth rhythmically to the dim alternative rock music being played as he intently watched the Hispanic woman pull and snip, pull and snip, pull and snip – the smell of hair products and cheap cologne was starting to give him a headache. "Do you want a haircut too?" Stan tore his eyes away from Kenny and met with a man – late twenties in age and dressed in an expensive looking satin dress shirt – with a pair of trimmers in his hand and a decorous smile.

"Oh," Stan started, "oh, no, thanks. I'm just with him." He motioned towards Kenny who had turned his head suddenly at the voice of the man addressing Stan; having startling the woman and ruined the positioning of whatever snip she was prepared to make, she pulled his head back into place with a greater vigor than considered necessary.

"Yes he does," Kenny intervened with a mischievous grin, cooperative with the woman as she pulled at his bangs, "he does. Do it."

Stan shook his head but after a second of thought and a tangential glance at the mirror, noticing that his hair was a little shaggy, he surprised himself and obliged quietly. The man had then immediately wrapped him a matching polka dotted drape as Kenny and grabbed a spray bottle – which still had half the Windex label on it - and drenched the boy's thick black hair with four quick sprays of cold water. "How short?" he asked, scratching his beard and putting down the bottle as he picked up a pair of scissors and a comb.

"Really short!" Kenny piped in. "For the ladies!"

Not in the mood for any type of protest, Stan shrugged, staring at himself in the mirror, instantly noticing all of his imperfections: his drying skin, his chapped lips, the bags underneath his blue eyes. The man, swiftly and without prior warning, took the first snip and Stan held his breath.

He and Kenny made eye contact in the mirror.

The sun was belligerent and Stan reached above his head and pulled down the block shade, swerving slightly with only one hand on the steering wheel – unlike most boys his age, he wasn't ashamed to admit that he was a reckless driver. Granted, he was a great driver given the right mood, but the rest of the time, the youth just didn't have the heart care about the threat of a fatal accident on the road. In vexation, Kenny peered over at him above his sunglasses, said nothing, and then turned back to the side window. Without much concern to what was on the bottom of his dirty converse, Kenny propped his feet on the dashboard.

"Fuck, man. You totally act just like your dad," Stan casually observed, turning his eyes from the road to Kenny's shoes on his family's new car.

"And fuck, man, you totally sound just like my mom." Kenny casually replied. "Let's kiss."

Stan was finished first because he, unlike Kenny who commanded and complained through the entire ordeal, took whatever the stylist gave him. It looked awkward, Stan thought, studying his new haircut in the mirror as the man pulled the drape off of him. His bangs, which use to reach his eyes, were now above his forehead in length; the hair that covered his ears and the back of his neck had been completely removed; it must have been all an inch long now and pushed in trendy positions by a trendy hair wax that smelled of some artificial fruit. He felt a breeze from the open door on the back of his neck – this was new to him. Tugging on his blue tee-shirt, trying to remove what hair he could that the drape hadn't caught, he glanced over at Kenny who was now leaning extremely close to the mirror with a hand tugging at various strands of his blonde locks. Tapered, fringed and naturally light in spite of the reasonable length, it didn't look half bad – Stan sure as hell wouldn't have minded it. But Kenny had shown an expression of disgust and mouthed the words "too short."

It really wasn't.

"Tah-dah!," Stan exuded in mock drama as he pulled the SUV to a stop near the curb of the rundown house, "The McCormick Residence!"

"Man, our haircut adventure has come to a close. What a damn shame, Mr. Marsh." Kenny replied opening the car door and hopping out. He stood with the door open, the gentle dinging of the car's notification system coming as a result of it, and stretched viciously with his arms above his head before tugging at the waist of his jeans. With a certain swagger, he turned to face Stan and grinned, "Hey I'm free for something later tonight – maybe after dinner – if you wanna hang." In all the years that Stan's known him, Kenny was always the one who was legitimately genuine in asking for company, and the one who was always free any time of the day or night.

"I got hockey practice tonight. How about afterwards?" – He glanced at the clock. 5:15PM. Hockey at 7:30PM – "Be by your house at nine-ish?"

"Sure." Kenny slammed the door closed and stepped back as Stan pulled the car away from the curb and made an elegant U-turn. "Later, man!" Stan called in a response to Kenny's stiff wave as he walked up the drive way.

"We look like fags" Kenny said with a hint of defeat as they walked towards Stan's SUV, parked on the other side of the parking lot. "Well, in reality, you've always looked like a fag but you just look faggier than usual with that haircut." Stan instinctively ran his fingers through his hair, almost startled by the fact that most of it what wasn't there anymore. The blonde hadn't stopped tugging at his ever since the woman had made the last cut.

"This is your fault." Stan laughed, shoving his friend by the shoulder who pushed back with that usual beam, "Until it grows back, we're not friends anymore."

"That's fine with me," Kenny replied, running up to the silver automobile and tugging impatiently like child at the door handle; Stan pushed the unlock button on his keys and Kenny instantaneously situated himself on the passenger side. Stan climbed in, started the engine and, being a creature of habit, flipped on the windshield wipers.

Once he was at the stoplight, waiting to pull out of the parking lot, he caught sight of a frail boy who must have been, at most, ten years old, standing edgily next to his plump mother. By the way that he was feverously pushing the crosswalk button, it was evident that they were preparing to cross the street into the shopping center he and Kenny had just come from. Placed on the boy were a tender smile and a green hat which only partially covered a head of curly red hair. Stan could, rapidly and unexplainably, feel his heart beat against his chest. Quickly, he turned to Kenny as if Kenny could provide for an answer to this rush of adrenaline he was feeling, only to see that the blonde was staring just as absorbedly at the boy and his mother. Stan turned back to the mother and son and inhaled heavily. The sight of the child brought a sudden wave of nostalgia and sense of acquaintance that he couldn't identify. He squinted, leaning forward slightly, at him from across the street.

The light turned green.

Then, feeling as if he'd just managed to pull himself above the deafening water for the first breath of air he'd had in a years, he abruptly remembered.

Kyle.

He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and shot into the street.

"Marsh!, You son of a bitch! Pay attention!" Kenny snarled.

What had he been thinking about? Suddenly, he couldn't remember.

Stan stared at his computer screen, the small type bar on the blank word document blinking back at him as he waited extremely patiently for the words to start flowing out of him and onto his report. Frankly, he had no idea what happened in France during the 1900's nor did he feel like he cared in the least bit. Exhaling deeply and running his hands through his short hair, he leaned back in his chair and gazed impassively at the ceiling, ignoring the pile of homework and class work he gained from skipping school. Only weeks to high school graduation, he couldn't find the incentive or the need to study any longer – and his parents might have finally understood: his mother had said nothing to him when he'd come down the stairs at noon in his boxers when he should have been in class. Now, at the early evening and feeling himself suspended between a clashing notion of repose and this unexplained sensation of strife, the boy lightly closed his eyes and absorbed his surroundings.

His room, which had been the same since he was twelve – the wooden bookshelves, the twin sized bed, the various posters – smelled of sordid sports equipment, something his mother currently complains about; now that his sister had moved in with her latest boyfriend, the room across the hall from him lacked its usual blasting of mainstream music and loud phone conversations. The hallway was silent but carried sounds from the ceremonious activity downstairs: his mother cooking in the kitchen which came with the slight aroma of beef stroganoff; his father on the couch, watching the news report on a low volume. With the window open, he could feel the light weather of the summer night, docile sounds of the world entering his ears – a lone cricket, an owl, a coming car, the glow of headlights through his eyelids

From downstairs, he heard his mom call his name, followed by the word 'dinner.' He opened his eyes and stood up.

"Can I skip hockey and hang out with Kenny tonight?" Stan offhandedly stated while tapping his fork on the top of his salad. Thus far, the dinner conversation had been on current events, some kidnapped boy, some murdered mother, some dangers of a new economic depression, and the usual threat of the world's impending end due to its insensitive inhabitants. He watched his dad turn from his mom and lay eyes on him the moment what he'd said processed. "Why?" The usual fatherly voice. Stan shrugged, picking up a tomato slice and bringing it to his mouth. "No, Stan. You've already decided to skip school without permission; you're not skipping hockey practice. You can hang out with Kenny afterwards." Stan said nothing else and listened to his parents talk with the television on in the living room, droning in and out between the two – his mother's latest information about their neighbors, his father's loose screw in hinge of their bathroom cabinet; the news broadcasts' weather report for tomorrow, a commercial for home insurance.

"Your haircut looks great, Sweetie." His mom said with her smile as she piled more salad on his plate. "It doesn't cover your face now and it's –"

"- can I be excused?" Stan said, interrupting his mom, "if I have to go to hockey, I wanna get there early so I can make some shots by myself."

Randy smiled brightly at his son, with one giant hand patting him on the back, "there's the spirit, Stanley! Go ahead. Call if you need anything."

Stan nodded and left the table, made a trip to his room to grab his sports bag and a light sports jacket and then made his way down stairs again. At the door, he heard his mom call, "that better not have been a lie to go over to the McCormick's, sweetie!" Stan rolled his eyes; his father was oblivious to his tricks but his mom read him like a book. He stepped outside and instantly dialed Kenny's number on his cell phone as he threw his sports bag into the bushes.

Kenny answered with the usual, "Dude."

"Change of plans. Be there in fifteen."

Driving would have taken less than five minutes – but he, on a whim, decided to walk.

As he closed the front door, he didn't hear his father say, "Oh guess what? I saw Ike Broflovski today. I told him that Stan wanted to know how his brother was doing."

The evening air still had the hint of the approaching heat wave of summer and he took a deep breath, zipping his jacket to his chin. With his hands in his jean pockets, he started to walk listening to the sound of his sneakers against the concrete. He blinked into the street in front of him, the dim orange lights from the porches of his neighbors filling the darkness around him. The 7 o' clock moon in all its grandeur hung dangerously before him accompanied by the plethora of faint blinking stars. Incessant in their placement, Stan didn't notice them – similar to how he'd grown used to the mountains around him.

He walked with his eyes placed on the ground. It never felt as long as it really was walking to Kenny's house – he's done it so many times, it seemed to have gotten closer to his house after all these years. With the turn of a corner after a long wide street, was the residence he sought. The rundown suburban was gaily lit like most of the houses in this part of town. The McCormick's truck was parked haphazardly at an awkward angle (two wheels on the lawn and two weeks on the driveway) as if Kenny's father had driven it home while intoxicated. While he crossed the street, he saw Kenny lying on the grass with the hoodie of his sweatshirt covering his feathery locks. He didn't have any shoes on. As if in some sort of dream, the boy stared vacantly at the sky and made no movement when Stan stepped foot on the dying grass. Without muttering any sort of greeting, the Marsh boy, with his hands in his pockets and an expression of inquisition, stood over his friend. Kenny blinked out of his reverie and flashed that trademark smile.

"Cartman's inside getting something to drink."

So Cartman's here. A dog barked in the distance and Mrs. McCormick's muffled voice, engaged in a conversation with her husband, echoed through the open window of the den. The lavenders that lined the house were slightly shriveled. It's always been the three of them, just sprawled about uselessly and lethargically during the warm evenings – in jeans and socks. Stan promptly laid himself down to Kenny's right. The grass was warm against his back and the exposed skin of his neck and palms.

Stan's eyes scanned the black sky with the speckles of stars and the moon that still hung low in the scope. The vast open space had him, incongruously, feeling smothered. In the back of his head, he wondered how long it would take his parents to see his sports bag in the bushes and that the SUV was still in the garage; he anticipated the vibrating from the cell phone in his back pocket.

"Hey…dude," Kenny said, tugging at the blades of grass with his hands, not turning away from the sky. "Did you see that kid from today? Across the street from the shitty barbershop – the one that was with his mom?"

The vision of the boy entered his head as he heard the front door open and the heavy footsteps of Cartman from above his head. Then the voice he'd grown to recognize without thought, "Oh look, it's a gay orgy on the lawn." Stan turned his head slightly to see the heavy set boy sit down with his legs crossed next to Kenny – a glass of water in his large hand. He wore a tee-shirt which was out of context with the current temperature; granted it was warm but not warm enough for the short sleeves to be a good choice in clothing. Subtle goose bumps lined Cartman's skin. He took a sip of water and remained silent, with his eyes down the block. So this was what over a decade of friendship has allowed them to gain – a lazy evening where nothing needed to be said in the contented stillness. Stan turned his head back to the sky.

"Yeah, I saw that kid," he muttered between breaths, finally replying Kenny's question. The vivid red hair underneath that hat; thin and bright skinned. The impatient pushing of the crosswalk button. That boy brought a plummeting sensation to his stomach.

"Who did he remind you of?"

Cartman cleared his throat. Kenny pulled at the stings of his hoodie. A breeze pushed the blades of grass to kneel. Stan remained motionless in thought.

"No one," Stan found himself saying. "It was just some kid."