A/N: Mostly filler again, yaay. And maybe some plot development. I don't wanna rush into everything just yet.
And ok, I really wasn't expecting this to get any support at all, so the fact that I have alerts and faves and reviews on this fic is astounding. Thanks so much! There are way better stories out there so I'm amazed that mine is getting attention.
Saturday and Sunday pass without incident. Well, okay, not counting Stan developing a huge bruise from Friday and Butters getting his face stuck to a mailbox (though that had been an intended and satisfyingly hilarious event).
Monday morning is different. Despite his best efforts, Stan is unshakably nervous. His aura of tension and paranoia is almost palpable. He finds himself constantly sneaking nervous glances at everyone he knows, wondering; trying to read their minds. Whenever he hits his bruise, he gets nauseous. It's probably not normal. He winds down a bit during fourth period, even though he'd passed Craig at one point earlier. The boy had regarded him and nodded curtly, but it hadn't really done much to pacify the fear. Craig's an asshole, so his nods can't be taken as a sign of anything. Stan informs Kyle of his anxiety at lunch. Kyle laughs and calls him paranoid. They continue on like this until the end of the school day, when they discuss their afternoon plans on the way to their locker. They come to a mutual decision to forsake their retards (and they mean that lovingly) and snipe people at the pond.
In hindsight, it's not the best idea.
"No one comes here anymore," Stan grumbles, reaching over to collect more snow. Kyle carves a happy face into his own snowball.
"There's no appeal. It's not aesthetically pleasing. The ice doesn't get thick enough to skate on," he pauses to consider something, "and coming here to make out would be fucking stupid."
"So sitting here and hanging out in trees makes us losers."
"Basically."
Stan shrugs and chucks his half-formed snowball at a bird. It misses.
"This blows."
"Yep."
They're silent again, each breath a visible puff of white. Stan wheezes a little. Kyle takes to thumping the back of his head against the trunk of the tree as he swings his legs back and forth. It's a companionable noiselessness. It almost makes everything seem okay. The immeasurable stretch of snow seems marginally less infuriating, the sharp angles of bare trees less bleak. The wind is soft and silent, stopping just short of bitingly cold. Nothing unusual. Kyle bites his lip, evidently debating whether or not to shatter it all.
"Sitting here hurts," he decides.
"Last one down... um. Sucks."
Stan swings his leg over the side of the branch and maneuvers his way down. Kyle beats him, though. Damned long legs. After a short argument, they make their way back to where they parked, chatting quietly about exams and snow and what the fuck ever else. Kyle stops mid-step a few feet from the car. The look on his face is one that's too familiar -- an unhealthy amalgam of anger and suspicion.
"There." He points across the street, at the large vehicle parked on the side of the road. "That's Cartman's car."
"There's more than one douche-mobile in the universe," Stan scoffs, studying the goliath. "Now who's paranoi-- Kyle?"
Kyle is already halfway across the street, shoulders set and fists clenched. Stan sighs and massages his temples. The things he puts up with, really.
"I know you're there, douche!" Kyle shouts, scooping up a handful of snow and chucking it at one tinted window. The driver's side door opens and Cartman oozes out, face impassive.
"Jew," he acknowledges with a dip of his head.
"Asshole."
"Before you give me a bruising verbal lashing," Cartman says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'll give you a warning. I know. Expect the worst."
Kyle stands, bewildered, as Cartman brushes the spattered snow off the back window and slides back into the front seat. Stan is still trying to implode and/or disappear when the other boy shuffles back to his side.
"I don't understand anything anymore."
"It happens."
--
"All he said was 'expect the worst,'" Kyle remarks later, once they're safe and warm in Stan's bedroom.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I dunno. I don't know how he knows, either."
"He must've talked to one of them."
"He hates them, though. And why would they just, like, tell him?"
"This is hurting my brain," Stan whines, tugging off his hat to pull at his hair. Kyle looks thoughtful for a moment.
"We should ask Bebe if she's seen Clyde talk to him."
"I forgot all about Bebe."
"So did-- wait." They look at each other and Kyle bites his lip. Stan's eyes go wide. Bebe. They hadn't thought about Bebe, had they? Never factored her in, never paused to wonder. God-fucking-dammit.
"Fuck," Kyle moans after they break the gaze.
"Yeah."
"They told her."
"Probably let it slip."
"And she told him."
"Dicks."
"I'm inclined to agree."
They both exhale loudly. It's briefly quiet, then Stan drops his head and groans into his mattress.
"God hates me," he mumbles.
"Nah." Kyle flips open his phone and scrolls through his contact list. "I'll just ask Bebe what's up."
"Like she'd tell you."
"No, man, she's nice to me. And she's a good lab partner."
"Whatever." Stan continues to scowl as Kyle types out a message. "What the hell are you gonna say, anyway?"
"Just that Cartman told us something weird."
"And she'll 'fess up to all of it."
"Yup."
After fifteen minutes of nervous fidgeting and talk of damage control, Kyle's phone buzzes. It's a glorious, heavenly sound, like the droning chorus of a thousand electronic angels. Or, you know, it could mean death. Whichever. An answer's an answer.
"Ahem," Kyle starts, "'He just knows that something went down. No deets. I'm sorry.'" Stan lets out a sigh of relief. Kyle is still displeased.
"We're, like, in the clear. Stop worrying."
"She seriously said 'deets.' What the fuck."
"Don't change the subject." They exchange glares, then Kyle dips his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"He's gonna try to find out what happened."
"He won't get it out of us, though." Stan hears something that sounds vaguely like the word 'stupid' come from Kyle. The bastard.
"There are other parties involved. And, and, and. Blackmail."
"You're overreacting."
"Says the guy who was bitching and moaning the entire day."
They study each other a moment, then drop it.
"I have a plan," Stan says after a long pause. Kyle looks up and frowns.
"Wow me."
"Basically," Stan begins, "you talk to Bebe, figure out what the hell's going on, have her talk to Craig and Clyde, and then we'll think of something to threaten Cartman with so he stays quiet."
"Won't work." Stan then punches Kyle in the arm. Kyle punches back. They wind up falling onto the floor and wrestling, their tribulations all but forgotten.
--
"From what I understand," Kyle says as he plops down next to Stan at lunch the next day, "everyone has everyone else by the balls. Total SNAFU."
"Fantastic. So now we wait for someone to crack under the pressure."
"Clyde's kinda got Craig whipped, so I think we're okay there." Kyle stops to raise an eyebrow. "Weren't you totally cool about this yesterday afternoon?"
"Yeah, but I had a nightmare."
"Nice." They wait for a bit, then watch the rest of their group dashes down the hallway. Butters looks ready to cry.
"Cartman cornered us," Kenny pants, "tried to ask what you guys have been doing lately. Something up?"
"He's just trying to ruin my life again," Kyle says, "no sweat." It's sort of the truth. Stan glances at him, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. The look he receives is nothing short of scathing.
"What's it this time?"
"Dunno. He's just being an asshat."
"Remember when he tried to convince everyone you had the zombie virus?" Kenny laughs to himself and fishes a bag of apple slices from Kyle's lunchbox. "That was a fun week." There's something, though. Something in Kenny's face that looks different. He looks like he's thinking. One can never tell with Kenny, though. It could be boobs or quantum physics on his mind. Speculation is pointless.
They talk more and manage to forget about everything until seventh period Health, during which Cartman sits a little closer to their group than usual. He seems to jot down notes with each sly glance in their direction. Stan is unconcerned. Kyle bitches via note-passing, which Kenny is irritatingly nosy about. Butters is oblivious. As it should be. When the final bell rings, Stan hurries to the locker to avoid having his ear talked (complained?) off. Kyle walks faster, though, so the solitude doesn't last.
"He's up to something."
"He's always up to something." Stan tugs his history book loose from the jumble of thick texts and places it in his backpack.
"This isn't good."
"I think you're blowing it way out of proportion." Kyle seems to tense at this. His eyes narrow and Stan knows he's about to explode.
"You can't fucking talk," he seethes, "you're so up and down and... and fucking bipolar about it. Don't try to preach."
"You fucking suck when you're a bitch," Stan hisses, slamming the locker door shut, "talk to me when you're cool again." He squares his shoulders and spins on his heel, preparing to stalk off.
"When we're both fucked over, you can deal with it your fucking self!" Kyle calls after him. Stan walks faster.
--
The words don't leave his head even as he dives headfirst into an APUSH study guide. It's kind of hard to focus on nonsense you'll never use when you're wondering what'll happen after your social life is fucked right up the ass and your best friend is too pissed to stick with you. What bullshit. He'll never make a sports team with this information in circulation. Heh, that rhymes. Stan allows himself to giggle briefly before going back to brooding. He really doesn't need this fuckery right before exams.
It's all so fucking juvenile. The eleventh-grade equivalent of uninviting someone to a birthday party. They'll both come around eventually, so it shouldn't be a problem, right? As hard as he tries to convince himself of this, the worry isn't quelled. The 'what if's keep plaguing him, distracting him from learning dates and names and other useless shit. Fuck, he's letting it get to him. Maybe he is kinda up and down about it. Maybe he needs to pick a side and stick with it. Maybe that's why it's bugging him so badly. He's indecisive, that's all.
"It's not a big deal," he announces to the room. Right. He can either be a griping, paranoid lunatic, or he can take it as it comes and relax. Total no brainer. He'll talk Kyle down, get him to regain his sanity, and deal with Fatty McButterchubs if need be. Fucking cakewalk. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and eyes his phone. He fucking hates making up. It's such a blow to his pride. Kyle's even worse, the stubborn fucker. Stan almost smiles before he decides to just go for it. He painstakingly types out a simple apology and waits. The study guide stares sadly up at him from its spot between the open pages of his textbook.
"It can wait." He shuts the book and waits for his phone to go off.
Sure enough, it does. But not before Stan just about worries himself to death. It's a little bit gay, but whatever. It's an apology, and it's important. The twelve-character message makes him smile, sigh, and decide to buckle down and finally fucking study.
--
Throughout the week, Cartman continues to not-so-subtly stalk them. Stan starts to find it funny, much to Kyle's dismay. Kenny remains curious. Butters, poor Butters, remains thoroughly perplexed. Kenny tries to explain it all with nonsense theories, but to no avail.
Stan keeps an eye on Craig, though. Fuck that kid. He's the only problem here. Even if Clyde has him whipped, he's a threat. If he'd just... explode or something, it would all be so much easier. But then Clyde would get upset. And he does irrational shit when he's upset. And he cries. And dealing with a crying teenaged mama's boy is hell. And so Bebe would kick Stan's ass for wishing an explosion on Craig. And she can hit hard, according to Token.
Goddammit.
Friday comes and no one has time for anyone else anymore. Four days of exams lie ahead. Midterm exam time is the most depressing time of year. People temporarily forget they have friends, relationships, and families and bury themselves in study guides and textbooks. The smart ones, anyway. And they all walk out of it five pounds lighter, with dark circles under their eyes that will take the whole break to get rid of. Serious fuckin' shit. You can fuck around freshman year, sure, but junior year is different. Grades matter.
Midterm exam time is also the time of year Stan finds himself obligated to put Kyle on suicide watch. It's fucking hectic, especially since Hanukkah and exam week tend to coincide. Oh, and this year, he's bitching about taking AP classes. Even though Stan, who is significantly less intelligent, is taking those classes too and is doing fine so that should be some kind of indicator, thank you, Kyle. Add all that to the stress of getting the other boy to stop thinking about his Cartman conspiracy theories, it's a Goddamn clusterfuck. Stan spends the weekend downing coffee (which he doesn't even like, what the fuck), participating in Hanukkah festivities while Kyle sulks, and trying to work reading self-help books into his study schedule. And being pressured into playing sentry whenever Kyle dares step out of his study-lair.
All in all, it sucks. Hard.
It passes, though, as do exams. There's a collective sigh of relief after the last exam of the week, and everyone starts talking about how easy those stupid tests were. Kyle is on cloud fucking nine. He almost doesn't take notice of Cartman's suspicious glances and stealthy trailing as their group shuffles down the hallway and towards freedom. Kyle sits in the parking lot for a full ten minutes and fumes until he passes out at the wheel. They all have to pitch in to heft him into the back seat and Stan is forced to drive. Kenny's just happy about getting Shotgun.
They wind up having to carry Kyle into his house. His mother pitches a fit. Ike laughs. They ignore it, dump Kyle unceremoniously on his bed, and play some card game or another until nightfall, when their comatose friend starts to stir.
"I feel like I was just fucked up the ass with a semi truck."
"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," Kenny greets boredly. "Spoons doesn't work well with three people. Join us."
"What the hell even happened?" Kyle rasps, stretching out on his bed. "Is it New Year's? Did we drink again? I thought you guys made me promise last year--"
"Shut up. You pissed yourself off so much your brain shut down," Stan informs as he attempts to shuffle the deck of cards.
"What were you throwin' a fit about, anyways?" Butters asks.
"Ca-- nothing."
"If, ah, if you say so."
Stan heaves a sigh, hands the deck to a flummoxed Kenny, and drops his head into his hands. Ri-fucking-diculous.
"... Right. Um, who wants to play Go Fish?"
"I do!"
"Can I talk to you?" Stan murmurs in Kyle's general direction. Kyle shrugs and gestures to the outside hallway with his head. Stan rises to his feet, cringes, and hobbles out the door.
"My foot's asleep," he whines, kicking out violently in a futile attempt to regain feeling.
"You're good at changing the subject before we're even on it."
"Suck it," Stan grinds out from between clenched teeth. He takes a deep breath, then, "Okay. Stop dicking out about Cartman. He's not worth the energy."
"Oh, Jesus Christ, seriously, can we drop this?"
"No, because I know you. This will cause you to lose sleep and worry and bitch and whine and drive yourself insane. And that's just fucking annoying."
Kyle regards him carefully, poorly-veiled anger obvious in his stance. He says nothing. Stan hesitantly proceeds with his lecture.
"You take him too seriously and he takes advantage of that."
"Or," Kyle growls, "he's just an asshole who targets me."
"Because you make yourself an easy target, dumbass." It's quiet. They don't make eye contact.
"You don't know what he's capable of."
"That's the fucking thing, though! You act like I don't know Cartman. I do. I've been there for all the shit he's pulled and I think he likes to blow smoke up your ass because you give him the satisfaction of letting him piss you off." Stan blinks, unsure of how he managed to piece that treasure trove of bullshit together.
"Since when are you a fucking psychologist?"
Stan could throttle him. He really could. Kyle's thin, so his neck would snap easily; it'd be so simple to just fuck him up. Goddamn. He loves the stupid bastard, he really does, but Jesus fucking Christ it's hard to tolerate him recently. Stan's not even sure why. He's put up with all this bullshit before – fuck, he never even really cared – so what makes this so fucking special?
Stress, probably.
"Look, dude..." Kyle starts, effectively causing Stan's train of thought to crash.
"No, man, don't..."
"I mean, like. You know."
"Yeah, I know."
And just like that, it's all cool again. Sort of. There's still that unshakable feeling of wrong about everything.
Then again, most things in town feel that way. So Stan's probably reading too much into everything. Probably.
