Back at the party.
Present day.
Up the stairs and down the hallway, Stan opened the door to the guest bathroom, blundering in and making the doorknob on the other side hit the wall. He steadied himself at the sink and kicked the door shut with his still-barefoot foot, looking at himself as intently as he could in the mirror. His fucking face kept moving around in front of him. He was starting to get the spins.
Correction, he was starting to notice the spins. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew his head had been spinning for a while... but he had no idea how drunk he was until he got to the bathroom. Something about the linoleum tiles and the unfamiliar smell of someone else's lavatory was making him want to lie down on the cold floor and just pass out. Then again, he didn't want to wake up in Bebe's bathroom tomorrow afternoon and have to try and sneak out to avoid the awkward 'how drunk were you last night?' conversation. He held on to the sink and closed his eyes.
'I hope things work out for you and—'
Stan groaned, whacking his fist on the wall next to him and taking a sizable gulp of the cup of what he thought might be gin... but his taste buds were shot, so what did he know? He had been trying to get the end of that unfinished sentence out of his head for the past four weeks; four weeks which he had spent forcing himself not to allow that name to cross his mind, which, of course, only meant he was thinking about it constantly. He took a gulp of the punch, which he only discerned was so because of color, and slid down to sit on the floor.
'I hope things work out for you and—'
FUCK.
This wasn't at all how the end of their senior year was supposed to be going. In less than a month, they would all be graduating. They were all going to different places soon, and this was not the way he'd imagined spending his last months in the fucked-up little town he called home. Wendy was off to Columbia, so Cartman had somehow manipulated his way into NYU to be with her. Bebe, Annie, Clyde, Token, Craig, all headed somewhere in the west coast he didn't remember. Everyone else, he hadn't even bothered to ask.
Kenny had spent the past few months convincing Butters to go to Princeton, something his sweet-tempered 'Buttercup' was still struggling with. Kenny had actually taken a shot and auditioned for the music program at Juilliard, and, even though he got in, couldn't afford to go. Instead of being able to put his gifted signing voice to the test, he'd be stuck working as a mechanic in South Park. Butters had gotten into Princeton with a full scholarship, but ever since what happened to Kenny, he was refusing to abandon him. The impending rift was putting a lot on their plate, and Butters seemed to get more and more depressed as the day grew nearer, spending every second with Kenny that he could and insisting that he had a plan to get him to New York. Stan was sure he'd find it all quite heartbreaking if he had pieces of his heart big enough to break again.
As for him and Kyle... They were both supposed to go to Berkeley together. Even filled out the form to be roommates, but after what happened... well.
Stan walked through the hallway on his way from lunch to Principal Victoria's office. He needed to fill out some financial aid stuff for Berkeley, and was hoping to run into Kyle to talk to him about a couple of things... Mostly just the whole 'one-night-stand-and-them-not-speaking-because-of-Stan's-stupid-inability-to-admit-how-he-felt' fiasco.
"Hello, Stanley, you here to fill out your paperwork?" Principal Victoria had always been a pretty good person to have around. At least she wasn't as downright retarded as most of the people in town. Or in the state, come to think of it. She did come down on him and his friends a little hard from time to time, but more often than not, they deserved it. Especially Cartman.
"Yeah, I just have to sign, right?"
"Yes, that's all that's left to do. I have them all right there, do you need a pen?"
"No, I've got one," he said, rummaging through his backpack and pulling out the pen he'd taken from the Hilton when he, Kyle, Kenny and Butters had all gone to Disneyland. He smiled, and started signing. He had been working up the nerve to find some casual way to catch up on how Kyle's paper work was coming without letting on to the fact that he was obsessing day and night over the thought of... everything. Nervously, he cleared his throat and tried to sound as non-chalant as possible. "Do you know if Kyle got all his financial aid stuff in on time? I know the deadline was—"
"Kyle? Broflovski?"
"Yeah, I know he's going to Berkeley too, so—"
"Oh, no, no. Kyle came in here on Monday. He decided to go to Stanford after all," she explained, emailing someone on the computer and completely oblivious to the fact that Stan had completely lost his ability to breathe.
His heart, he was sure, was going to fall through his feet and down into nowhere. The inside of his chest felt like it was harboring a black-hole. All he could hear was his heartbeat, so loud he was surprised the principal didn't look up at his panic-stricken face and call the hospital. He tried to swallow, his mouth dry enough to make speaking difficult as a concept alone.
"Wh-what... did he. I mean, he—uh—he's going to Stanford," he stumbled. "He's, um, well—good. That's good. Good school. That's... good school."
He continued what he was doing, his signatures turning into amorphous blobs of shock that barely resembled what it was supposed to look like.
"Yes, I'm glad he decided to go for it. He's a smart kid," she chit-chatted trivially, not actually paying much attention to him. Not that he noticed. When your walls are coming crashing down on you, you don't tend to notice much else.
"Yeah, yeah, he's—he's a smart kid. Smart kid... Stanford," he mumbled, drawing a shaky squiggle on the last form and putting them all back in the folder. "Alldonethanks."
"Okay, bye bye, Stanley."
He walked briskly out of the office, blinking furiously to avoid fucking crying in public before he could lock himself in a bathroom stall.
And here he was again, locked in a bathroom, crying silently as he stared at the wall. He had never cried so much and so often in his life as he did over the past month. When did he become such a goddamn pussy? The very thought made him grab for the towel to wipe those stupid fucking tears away and down the rest of the still-unsure-if-it's-gin-or-what in one, monstrous, neutralizing gulp. He was getting close to the end of his limit for alcohol. Good. That's just what he was aiming for tonight.
Fucking Kyle.
Mother fucker hadn't even bothered to tell him that he had changed his mind about Berkeley. Although, come to think of it, he couldn't really expect him to. He should have seen it coming. They were supposed to go to together. Kyle had turned down Stanford, which had caused Sheila Broflovski to come cantering over to their house, livid, to yell at Stan for 'ruining her bubby's chances at being the lawyer he was meant to become.' For 'ruining his life,' apparently. He had turned down an almost full-ride at a school like Stanford so that they could go to college together, because neither of them seemed to be able to stomach the idea of being even just an hour away from each other. Because, even back then, even though he didn't know what it meant, Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski couldn't live without each other.
He took another sip of the punch.
Kyle should have been there with him, drunk as a skunk, setting things on fire in the backyard, celebrating the end of their South Park days, spending all the time they could with Kenny and Butters before they all went their separate ways. If he recalled correctly, they were all going to go down to Mexico together after graduation—it was sunny enough to be worthwhile and cheap enough for Kenny to afford, unlike their last trip. But no, his Super Best Friend was nowhere to be found, and he, Stan Marsh, was to blame for that. He was to blame for all of this. Sheila Broflovski was right: he'd ruined their lives. She was only wrong about what he did to ruin them.
The remorse over it all made him feel like throwing up, and he put the half-empty cup of death-punch aside to hug himself around the toilet. He waited, wanting to just stick his head in and drown, but after that phase Kenny went through when he was killing himself for kicks, he no longer found suicide appealing. He'd already been too much of a coward to go out like one in flaming, cowardly colors. He pulled away from the toilet and was getting up to leave, when the door opened and hit him square on the forehead.
"What the FUCK!"
"Oh, shit, dude! Sorry!" Kenny McCormick doddered in, grabbing on to the towel bar for balance. He put his drink on the sink and helped his friend up. "Oooh, fuck," he laughed, moving away to grab some toilet paper. "I think I cracked your head open. Crack! Like an egg."
"Ugh."
"Not that there's much in there! Eh-oh!" he quipped, eliciting a punch to shoulder from Stan that unbalanced them again. "Uncool, yo! I'm drunk, drunk, drunk as fuck! And, hey! So are you!" He brought the clump of toilet paper to the sink to dampen it with water. "Oh man, dude, I just saw Clyde and... what's her name—"
"Annie," Stan mumbled, indifferent, touching his head to see that he was bleeding. He flashed a cynical smile to his finger, which Kenny missed.
"Yeah, Annie... Goddamn, ten years in the same school and I still can't, can't remember her friggin' name. Hah. Anyway, they fell down to the floor when she started doing this weird slutty dancy-thing—shaking her ass too fast so some song by that Latin chick, what'shername—"
"Shakira?"
"Right! Shakira. Some Shakira song. Anyway, Annie starts shakin' and Clyde looks like, scared shitless, like, he has no idea what's going on, and he's drunk, so, he can't hold on to her very well, so they both fell, and then just started grind-fucking! Right there, right in front of everyone! You missed some show, man." He was laughing pretty hard until he looked down at the shredded clump of toilet paper he had over-saturated and cursed himself under his breath before grappling for another giant clump and bringing it to the sink. "Even Butters couldn't look away—"
"Get me out of here."
Kenny stopped moving, looking at his friend. The tone of Stan's voice was just painful. He clumsily squeezed the excess water out through his hands and applied the soggy mess to his friend's forehead, wiping the trickle of blood away. Kenny, of course, was well aware of why Stan was so upset. Next to Kyle, Kenny was Stan's closest friend.
"Yeah, ok, come on," he said, grabbing Stan's arm and putting it around his shoulders. It took him a while to find his footing before Stan pointed out a problem in this plan.
"How're we're gonna get home? We can't operate heavy machinery right now, remember? Ha, remember that video? That stupid.. the lame-ass drink-driving, I mean, drunk driving, drunk video... It was so lame."
"SO lame," Kenny said, laughing as he remembered it. "That part with the.. that slutty chick, you know? The bitty with too much make up, when she crashed and was all dead—"
"She was—"
"SUCH a bad actress!" they finished together, laughing as they started to make their way down the hallway, back to the party. Stan groaned.
"I mean drive, Ken. Whatever. We shouldn't drive. I don't wanna die tonight," he said, tripping slightly on the first step and holding on to Kenny for balance.
"Well, that's the spirit!"
They had made it to the bottom, the clock in the living room reading 1:25 in the morming. He hoped to god that Kenny's better half could get them all home safe. Not that he would mind totaling the car. Maybe if he almost died, Kyle would come back to him. The thought was intriguing. He always saw it in movies: the couple would have a huge fight because one of them made a big fucking mess of a mistake, and then the mistake-maker gets hit by a car or something and almost dies, and the person they fucked over realizes they can't live without them, and, ta-da. Happily Ever After. It could work. And if he got killed, then he got killed. It was better than living in a world without Kyle anyway...
But he wasn't going to put Kenny and Butters in danger just to try and get almost annihilated and make his best friend forgive him. What a stupid, selfish plan.
What other option do you have?
"KENNY!"
The second he heard Butters' voice, a wave of dread washed over him. He had clearly been drinking just as much as everyone else had. He turned around in time to see a little blond in a turquoise jacket bouncing towards them wildly to the Lady GaGa song playing in the background. He felt Kenny break away, leaving Stan to lean cooly-ish against the wall for balance.
"Fuck, Butters, you're faced too? How the fuck are we going to get home, goddammit?" Stan yelled, a little more angry at his little friend than he'd intended. Misdirected anger seemed to be his thing these days.
"Don't fucking talk to him like that," Kenny growled. He had a zero-tolerance policy when it came to people acting negatively towards his other half in any way, shape, or form. All the emotional and physical abuse Butters had suffered since his toddler years, both from his parents and his peers, had put Kenny on the protective.
"Right, you're right..." Stan said sheepishly, embarrassed to be taking out his frustration on one of the only people who was on his side. "Sorry, Butters."
"Aww, that'skay, Stan-Stan!" he chirped, swatting the air with his hand in a 'forget about it' gesture before holding on to the back of his boyfriend's neck, swinging from side to side as the taller, more muscular of the two held him steady as best he could. Kenny pulled Butters close and nuzzled into his neck, making fragile little him sigh and giggle. "Ah! No biting, you bad! Bad, Kenny! Bite!"
"Wait, you want me to bite?" Kenny teased, raising an eyebrow and smirking before going back in to playfully nip at Butters' neck again. "If you say so!"
"No! Ha, oh, wait! Kenny, no—I, oooh," he sputtered, laughing, sighing, protesting and urging him on all at the same time. "K-Kenny.."
"Aw, dude. Not now," Stan snapped, crossing his arms. Kenny stopped his playful assault and glared slightly at his friend before Butters' sensed the tension and put a stop to it.
"Ken, come on, he's hurting," he reasoned, giving Stan a sympathetic look. "It's only fair." Only Butters could control Kenny and his temper. He turned the darker blonde's head towards him and flicked him on the nose before placing a chaste kiss on his lips. "Now turn that frown up! Side! Down!"
"You're such a dork," Kenny smiled.
"Yeah, yeah, you guys are in love, I get it," Stan remarked, looking around the room for any Melvins who were sober enough to take them to their respective houses. No such luck. Everyone was sauced. "So, how the hell are we gonna get home?"
"Walking—wait! Where are your shoes, Stan!" Butters eyes were wide as flying saucers. Apparently the fact that Stan was missing his shoes was boundlessly shocking to him.
"I—um," Stan scratched his head, trying to remember. "Where... w-wait..." He took a long pause. "When did I take off my shoes? And what happened to my gin? Or was it vodka? I think it was gin. Where's my coat? I want more coat. Um, no, vodka. I want more vodka... where's my coat?"
"You've had enough, dude," Kenny chuckled, looking around the room and pointing at Annie and Clyde, passed out on the couch together, both too wasted to continue their public groping session. "We all have. I'm cutting you off. No more alkies for you tonight, Marsh."
"Ra-ra-ra-ah-ah! Roma-roma-mah, GaGa, ooh la la, we can all walk home!" Butters chimed in, offering his solution to the tune of the music. "We're, in, a-small-town! Won't, be, hard-to-walk! Ken, Ken, I-love-you! WANT YOUR BAD ROMANCE!"
Kenny burst out laughing as he caught Butters, who flailed a little wildly and would have fallen straight to the floor if it hadn't been for the other's killer reflexes. Stan whistled, impressed.
"How do you do that? You're like fucking Spider Man, dude, even when drunk," Stan slurred, helping them both to their feet in a hypocritcally drunken manner. Kenny snorted.
"Yeah, well, getting killed over and over again tends to sharpen your instincts—"
"NO!" Butters screamed, grabbing onto Kenny's shoulders. "Not again! Don't get killed again, Kenny!" The look on his face was one of deep, deep fear and distress. Tears started welling up in his eyes at an alarming rate as he clumsily searched Kenny for any visible fatal wounds, checking where all the important vital organs and such were. "No, no... no, not—not again, please,—no! not again..."
Jesus Christ, he really loves him.
"Hey, hey, Buttercup," Kenny cooed, trying to get Butters to calm down, who was still searching him for open wounds and mumbling something about 'not again,' 'dying,' and 'no, Kenny, no' under his panic. "I'm fine, I'm not hurt. I'm not going to die."
"I HATE it when you die!" he cried out, making a few people turn around and look at them funny.
"I know," Kenny said, pressing a kiss on Butters' forehead. "I know, it's okay... I'm okay." Butters sniffled, pressing himself into Kenny and making them both stumble again a little. Kenny wrapped his arms around him, continuing to place light little kisses on Butters' head. "Time to go home."
The smaller blonde nodded, wiping away tears. That was, of course, until he heard the next GaGa hit come through the speakers. Stan had never seen such a rapid mood-switch in his life.
"Oh, oh! I love this song!" Butters squealed, smiling broadly. Kenny laughed at his everything's drunken mood-swing, mumbled an amused 'nevermind' and pulled him close as Butters started to dance and sing as loudly as he could. "HELLO, HELLO, BABY! YOU CALLED, I CAN'T HEAR A THING!"
Stan, on the other hand, had had enough of Lady GaGa, enough of the happy couple before him, enough of this bullshit. It was time to go home and pass out. Either that, or he was going to drink himself to death. The latter seemed to him far more reasonable, so he stumbled off through the kitchen, grabbing a quarter-full bottle of something gold and out to the back porch. Only in such shape could he be stupid enough to do what he was going to do next. He pulled out his phone and walked out to sit on the steps leading to the backyard, pressing number 2 on his speed-dial. Kyle Broflovski.
Call.
