**TW: Suicide

Chapter 11: If I Knew the Way I Would Take You Home

Kenny never did come back. Not that Butters was lucid enough to notice at that point, mind, but after a full night's sleep and a bowl of Cheerios the next morning, he's a little more aware.

Amazingly enough, once he thinks on it, Butters finds that he actually isn't bothered by it. What with how strange Kenny's been acting lately, plus the inscrutable relationship he has to his gay side, it's not at all surprising that he's just sort of up and disappeared again.

No, he doesn't care about that. He'd even go so far as to say he's indifferent to all of it by now.

He's stupid for thinking Kenny would stick around in the first place. After all, isn't it Butters' fault for being a dumb slut? That's why all of this started, because he can't keep a guy's dick out of his mouth long enough to exchange pleasantries, much less talk about the implications of what they're doing with each other.

It's been almost twenty-four hours since he's seen or heard from Kenny when Stan calls him. For a brief moment, he feels a little swell of cheer in his gut as he answers with a chipper tone to his voice. Seeing Stan might be just the thing he needs right now—when all else fails, Stan will always be there.

Except Stan's not calling to hang out or come over; he's calling to say that Gary's gone missing, that no one knows where he is, and if he sees or hears from him to say so immediately. "Please, dude—I know you probably know as much about it as anyone else, but I mean… his mom and dad are worried and so am I. Hello? Are you okay?"

Butters makes a noncommittal noise of affirmation before hanging up and crawling under his covers. If he snuggles under where Kenny rested yesterday, he can still smell the faint scent of cigarettes and boy on his sheets and pillow.

He watches Hello, Dolly! twice before his mom comes up to check on him.

"This is how you're going to spend your Christmas break?" she asks, eyebrows perched high on her forehead. "The least you could do is clean up this pigsty if you're going to lock yourself up here. If we get black mold because you can't keep your room nice and tidy, you'll be grounded into your thirties, young man."

Butters looks listlessly from her to where his towel from yesterday afternoon is pooled on the otherwise immaculate floor. The worst part is that he can see Kenny's perfect, wonderful face trying to hold back a laugh so clearly, like it's etched into his brain or something. He likes that Kenny tries to laugh and make light of his little screw-ups, even if it's sort of counter-productive.

"Sorry, mom," he mutters and slides out from under his covers, barely energized enough to walk over to the towel, much less pick it up.

"And you're still in your pajamas…" his mother shakes her head. "Honestly, young man, I am at my wit's end with you. After all your father and I have done to try to turn you into a hardworking young adult, too. Just wait until he hears that you're not even dressed for a day that is already half over."

She leaves without another word, just an overly tired huff that makes Butters' eyes slip shut as he walks back to his bed and settles into it. He's not sure when he falls asleep again, only that he wakes up a few times to pee (and once to eat a cold cheese sandwich that he doesn't even finish), and soon it's the next day.

Butters knows he's not sick anymore, but he still feels like crap. He thinks this might be why he repeats this cycle of nearly endless sleep twice more before it's Christmas Eve and his mom physically drags him out of bed to go to midnight mass.

"If you think your little act is going to get you out of going to church, then you must realize that it'll get you out of going to Heaven too, young man," his mom says as she shoves him into the bathroom and stomps back to her room to get ready. Somewhere in the back of his mind is Kenny saying, "I don't think God cares how clean you are, just as long as you show up."

And then he remembers that that's not Kenny's voice, but Dolly Parton's, and that he shouldn't have fallen asleep watching Steel Magnolias last night… or yesterday morning… whenever that was.

It all, of course, takes a turn for the strange, when he imagines Kenny with Dolly Parton's boobies and advocating to Olympia Dukakis that "he hasn't left his house without Lycra on his thighs since he was fourteen." And when the image of Kenny spread out on a bed in nothing but a garter belt and fishnets fails to rev up his engine, he knows there's something wrong.

When he gets out of the shower, he tries to call Kenny, but no one answers—not even Kevin, who's answered Kenny's phone a few times before (it almost makes Butters douse his phone in Kerosene and light it on fire every single time it happens). He wouldn't be surprised if Kenny was ignoring his calls. Butters does tend to get a little clingy with friends, and even if Kenny thought so he wouldn't say anything to him directly. Kenny's a nice guy, always pumping Butters with compliments every chance he gets.

"Your hair is so soft."

"You feel so good in my hand."

"Has anyone ever actually tried to… y'know, fit your dick in them?"

Okay, so that last one probably wasn't meant as a compliment, but all Butters had gotten out of it was that he has a big dick, and while he may not be an insufferable douchenozzle, that's still nice to hear.

"Sheesh Kenny," Butters mumbles to himself as he buttons up his nice, dark red shirt, "If you'd wanted to have sex, you shoulda said somethin'."

He looks at himself in the mirror, then, as if to silently ask his own reflection if he'd really just talked to himself like that, and realizes this is the first time he's seen himself in about a week.

He's thinner. Not by much, but he can definitely see that the little paunch of baby fat around his gut has diminished considerably, as has the boyish chub of his cheeks. After nearly a week of stress with the play, followed by almost two days of purging anything but water and Gatorade from his system, and then followed by an exclusive diet of saltines and cheese sandwiches, it shouldn't be as surprising as it is.

He knew that wasn't the belt notch he normally used.

There are also dark bags under his eyes and his lips are pale and cracked, and if he looks closely at his hair, it's starting to get dry and broomlike at the edges, not entirely unlike Kenny's.

It's his dad who comes to fetch him this time, presumably because his mom is too fed up with him for words. He's caught looking at himself, and sort of stands stock still, like a frightened deer in the headlights, as he waits for his dad to say something.

"Butters, will you hurry up?" he implores. "It's a nice shirt and some slacks, for Pete's sake. And what is that face you're making? You're going to church—if you're not going to respect me and your mother, at least respect God while you're in His house."

Butters looks down at the floor, "Yessir."

Idiot… there he is worrying about Kenny and how he looks, all sorts of sinful things, when he should be focused on going to church and thanking baby Jesus for being born and dying for him.

Or maybe that's Easter.

Jeez, is he so queer that he can't even get his holidays straight anymore?

"Hetero, dude," Kenny's voice rings faintly in his ears. "You can't get it hetero anymore. Gotta be PC, come on."

Even when he's not here, he's still witty.

Why isn't that gorgeous, witty man here right now?

Butters looks at himself in the mirror one more time before shaking his head at himself, certain that what's reflected back at him is the only explanation he'll ever need.

When they get to the church, they share a pew with Stan and his mom. Stan has to actively tell Butters to sit next to him, something that didn't even occur to Butters to do until it had been pointed out that he could.

"Hey, man," Stan says softly as his mom and Butters' parents start chatting beside them. Stan looks concerned, probably because it's been a few days and still no one's heard from Gary. Only, he gets a look at Butters' face and gives a loud whistle. "You look like shit… are you okay?"

Butters looks over at him and shrugs. He doesn't feel too much like talking right now, but he does appreciate that Stan scoots a little closer to him. They can't do anything more than that, being that they're in church and their parents are right there and everything, but the heat of Stan's thigh against his is just enough to keep him grounded.

When Stan gets up about fifteen minutes into the service under the feeble excuse that he needs to pee, Butters gives so few fucks about what his parents might say and follows him out of the church. They don't say anything, even though it's colder than anything outside just about now and Butters just wants to be back under his covers and hidden from the world. He doesn't think he could tell Stan that.

Then Stan pulls a flask out of his jacket and takes a swig, offering it to Butters immediately after. Butters takes it and gulps down a large mouthful of what tastes like cheap whiskey. If anything, it warms him up a little and enables him to function past his initial 'fuck, it's cold' reaction.

They walk over to the graveyard at the side of the church, where Eric and, suspiciously, Kyle are huddled together under a dead tree, all bundled up and smoking their cigarettes.

"Aw, fuck, you brought Butters?" Eric groans. The words don't hit Butters like they normally would, but he does have to remind himself that crying right now will only lead to more ridicule, and Stan would only further question why he's even friends with Butters in the first place.

"Be cool, man," Stan frowns. "No one deserves fucking midnight mass." He plucks the cigarette from Kyle's fingers and takes a drag. Butters never thought Stan smoked, y'know, because of football and everything. Something tells Butters that the last week's probably been stressful enough to get him to start, though.

He's taken a pull off of Kenny's cigarettes in the past, just a few times. It's not all that calming, except for that it's something to do with your hands.

"Either of you got an extra I could have?" he asks. The three of them look at him like he's got tentacles coming out of his nose. Even Butters has to admit he sounds stupid asking, if not for the actual question than definitely for the way his voice scratches against his dry throat. It almost feels like he's never spoken before.

Surprisingly enough, it's Eric who offers up his pack of Marlboros and fancy metal lighter. He lights the cigarette and takes a drag, handing the lighter back to Eric and immediately regretting his decision. These taste kind of gross, and he'd actually take those gag-worthy Pall Mall Menthols that Kenny smokes and that stupid disposable lighter with the American flag on it any day.

Butters thinks he may be in love with white trash, and he can't even find it in his heart of hearts to care.

If this is love, it's pretty dumb.

"Dude, seriously," Stan gives him a concerned look again. "Are you okay?"

Butters just shrugs and brushes at a bit of snow on the tombstone right behind him so he can sit down. It's colder on his boys than he'd like, but he's not sure he'll ever use them again, so that's all right.

Surprise of all surprises, they start talking about Gary after they're done ogling Butters.

"Maybe he's in Utah, starting anew or something," Kyle suggests.

"He wouldn't go to Utah," Stan shakes his head, taking one last drag before handing the cigarette back to Kyle. "I mean, he doesn't hate his religion or anything like that, but I don't think he'd go to the fucking motherland, you know what I mean?"

"Maybe he killed himself," Eric chips in helpfully, which only makes Stan punch him hard in the beefy shoulder.

"What the fuck would you say a fucking thing like that for, you fucking fuck?" he punctuates the last two words with another two swift punches to the same spot, and Eric gives an indignant "Ay!"

"Relax, Jesus!" Kyle interjects, moving to stand between them. It's an odd sight, to say the very least, but Butters supposes Christmas miracles come in all shapes and sizes. "No one killed themselves; don't have a shit fit."

"How do you know?"

Butters doesn't even realize that's his voice until he glances up and sees his three companions looking back at him like he's insane for the second time that night.

"Butters…" Stan starts in softly, and Butters just looks back down at where his nice shoes are sitting stark against the white snow.

"What?" he hears himself ask. "I think it's a fair question. No one knows what happened, right?" He looks up again and something in his brain won't let him register the looks on his friends' faces, so he just keeps talking, "Kids like that do themselves in all the time. Always the ones we least expect, right?"

"Dude," Stan shakes his head a bit. "Dude, chill out. Cartman's just being a cock. No one killed themselves. Gary knows better than that, all right?"

"I don't think it's a matter of knowin' better, Stan," Butters shakes his head, that old odd feeling bubbling up into his gut and chest full force. "Some people just realize that sometimes stuff doesn't get better an' look for a way out. No reason to keep livin' if you don't want to anymore."

Heck, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of letting himself fall off the roof while he was cleaning the gutters, or hadn't noticed how nice the thin edge of a knife looks against the greenish-blue veins on his arm. Who hasn't thought about it before, right?

The words must have more gravity than he thought, because immediately Stan is in front of him, cold hands nearly hissing as they come into contact with Butters' piping hot cheeks, and he's checking Butters' eyes like he's looking for signs of a concussion. Then he does something dumb and unthinkably inappropriate, which is kiss him on the lips in front of Eric and Kyle.

They don't say anything, though, for which Butters thinks he might be grateful. He's not sure.

He's not sure of anything anymore. Even Stan's lips on his aren't enough to pull him back into himself and get him smiling again. However, he does drop his cigarette (if the light sizzle at their feet is any indication) and lean into Stan when he breaks the kiss. He tries to pretend that it's Kenny holding him, but Stan's too solid and too thick for it to work. Stan's hands are bulky and square as they stroke through his hair, and he smells like nice soap that costs more than a buck a bar.

He wants Kenny, and Kenny couldn't be clearer about not wanting him.

Just like Stan wants Gary back, or like Kyle wants Stan. Stan will probably get what he wants, and so will Kyle.

At the end of the day, nobody wants or needs Butters around, unless they need a punching bag. There are two things Butters never fails to excel at: fucking up and being treated like shit. Kenny's offered him a veritable gauntlet of tasks to prove that he's above proficient in both skills.

"I think I'm gonna walk home," Butters says to himself more than the others, but Stan catches him by the sleeve before he can go.

"Let me go with you," he says, but Butters listlessly manages to shake his head.

"I'll be fine, I promise," he offers a smile at that, but it must be pretty weak. Even Eric looks a little worried, and he has actively suggested to Butters that he kill himself in the past.

That's what they're worried about, right? Just because Butters can see why someone would do it, understand someone's state of mind about it, now they're going to call him every five minutes just to make sure he still has a pulse. Like their lives would be any worse for the wear if Butters just up and flitted out forever. The only reason they're even concerned is because the thought of someone committing suicide is often more frightening than the thought of going the rest of your life without that person.

Trying to wrap your head around someone knowing they could take their own life is almost more difficult than coming to terms with death, isn't it?

"I'll text you when I get home, I swear," Butters says and lets Stan kiss him again. He 'oof!'s when Stan pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, and almost starts crying when Stan's voice curls into a soft "I love you, dude" in his ear.

He loves Gary, he loves Kyle, and now he loves Butters? Butters holds back a laugh, because even someone like Stan couldn't have that much love to give. It just doesn't seem possible.

Butters doesn't say it back, either. He wants to, almost more than anything, but lips won't work and his voice is dead in his throat. Instead he gives them all a lazy raise of his hand in lieu of a full wave and turns to walk back to his house. It's not a bad walk, it being South Park and all, and when he gets back he immediately goes up to his room.

He peels off his nice clothes and pulls out his phone and texts Stan, "Home" and leaves it at that. He sits at his desk in nothing but his undies and thin white under shirt. He pulls out a piece of paper and a pen, and the moment he makes the first stroke onto the sheet, the words just pour out.

He likes boys.

He's sorry for being a terrible son, sorry for lying, sorry for being nothing but a constant disappointment.

He loves everyone and he's just… sorry.

He pulls out a second piece of paper, this one written to Stan. He loves Stan too, and writes down everything he couldn't say back at the church, about how nice it is that he kissed him and how he's always been such a good friend to him, even if Butters was always a pretty shitty friend in return. He asks very nicely, he thinks, for Stan to hide his porn from his parents, if in fact they've yet to find it. Not that it'll matter too much anyway.

Butters doesn't bother writing to Kenny. The last thing he wants to do is annoy him with this too.

Like, great—first the kid won't get off my nuts, now he tells me he loves me.

That's not how Butters wants to go out.

Fuck.

Go Out.

He feels like there's a little more stigma and fear attached to that phrase, the idea, and the concept. It'll be quick, and then he'll never have to deal with any of this ever again, right?

He gets up from his desk and goes back to his mirror. He can see the faint scars on his legs and arms, the ones he used to make himself, the ones he quickly dismisses as gardening accidents, the ones Kenny's looked at and traced over many times, like he knows what they are but won't say anything. He looks at his goony face and his messy, straw-like hair. He likes it like this, if only because it looks like Kenny's, or Tweek's.

But, the last thing he wants is his parents to be reminded of what a no-good yippie fuckup he was, so he grabs a pair of scissors out of his desk, and, positioning the trash can underneath him, starts cutting chunks of his hair until it stops curling at the tops of his ears and at the bottom of his neck. Then, deciding to leave no stone unturned, goes to get the electric razor out of his mom and dad's room and tidy it up.

It's funny, but with this short cropped hair… well, when he blurs his eyes and looks at his reflection, he almost looks like a fairer version of his dad. They have the same face shape, the same teeth, the same nose—a dye job and Butters could easily pass for a younger version of him.

Butters drops the razor onto the counter and heads back to his room. He gets dressed back up in his church clothes and neatly tidies the rest of his room, makes his bed… just in case. Like he's moving through a checklist, he goes into the medicine cabinet and grabs a brand new razor blade out of its plastic casing. The edge is silvery and thin, so neat and pristine. Butters sits on the edge of the bathtub and turns the blade over in his fingers a few times before he rolls up the sleeve on his left arm and drags the flat of the edge along the bugged out veins under his skin. His nerves make his hand twitch and jump, the feeling cool and all-too familiar.

He started and stopped cutting within the span of a month back when he was thirteen—it had ended up hurting later much more than he'd thought, one of the cuts got pretty badly infected, and at the end of the day it just wasn't worth trying to hide them.

People pretended to care when they saw it, got him help and urged him to stop and all that, and Butters has spent the last couple of years deluding himself into thinking that he still cares about being alive.

When the blade breaks his skin, Butters has a brief moment of panic when he watches a few drops of red splash onto the pristine white tile below. He can't help it—he thinks about how sore his parents will be when they see the mess.

Luckily, that's not something he has to worry about anymore.

oooooo

Stan is a little uneasy letting Butters go, but he looks back at Kyle and Kyle gives him a smile and it's all okay for a little bit. He leans in close to Kyle and takes the cigarette from him again, inhaling and ignoring the way that Cartman scoffs at them.

"Hey," Kyle laughs a little and takes the cigarette back. "That's mine."

"Not anymore," Stan sticks out his tongue, smiling a bit.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," Cartman rolls his eyes and flicks his cigarette into the snow. "If you fags are gonna start making ass babies right here, I'm out."

"Mm, good," Stan's face splits into a full grin as he wraps his arms around Kyle's waist and pulls him close. Kyle laughs, but goes along with it, mostly because they'll do just about anything to get rid of Cartman.

Cartman makes some gagging noises, and when they start making exaggerated grabs for each other, he actually flips them off and makes loud declarations about how he's going to leave.

"No, not there!" Kyle yelps and curls in on himself when Stan prods him.

"Fuck off, you grabbed my tit, fucker!" Stan chuckles and keeps poking.

"That's my appendix scar, knock it off!" Kyle manages to get out through a fit of laughter, and after declaring this the gayest thing he's ever seen, Cartman finally up and leaves. Only now Stan and Kyle are kind of wrapped up in each other, arms draped over one another like they're holding each other or something, even though they've stopped doing… well, whatever it was that they were doing.

Stan catches Kyle's gaze and feels his heart leap up in his throat. He's always loved Kyle's eyes—a rich hazel color that are both brown like his dad's and green like his mom's and entirely breathtaking. He could spend his life looking at people in exactly the way he's looking at Kyle right now, and he knows he'd never feel like this again.

"Good riddance, right?" Kyle laughs a little, and Stan nods very briefly before leaning forward and closing his lips over Kyle's.

It's the single-most electrifying thing Stan has ever felt, and it makes him queasy and lightheaded and fuck.

He pulls away, though he'd like to stay adhered to Kyle's for as long as possible, and lets a shaky breath fan over their lips. Kyle's looking a little shaken, just about as jittery Stan feels.

"You just go around kissing people like it's nothing, don't you?" Kyle mutters, eyes fixed permanently on Stan's mouth. Stan licks at his lower lip, gut all thick and melty at the realization that that's Kyle, finally, he can taste on his tongue, and nods vaguely. Kyle just looks at him, trying to hide a smile as he shakes his head and gives an affectionate, "What a slut" before surging forward to kiss him again.

And it actually makes Stan's heart want to leap out of his chest. He wraps his arm around Kyle's shoulders and slips his tongue into his mouth. Kyle kisses him back, pinning Stan back against the tree, and for a few moments he thinks he may actually be in heaven.

"Wow," Stan laughs a little as Kyle pulls back, and brings his hand up to rest on Kyle's cheek. "Shit, you're cold, dude."

"Ah, fuck," Kyle chuckles and rests their foreheads together. "I should get inside."

"No," Stan knows he pouts and pulls Kyle in for another kiss. He has this, finally has it, and he will be goddamned if he gives it up that easily. They sit there making out in the church cemetery, and if they can get through this without being struck down by God lightning or whatever, Stan figures God's cool with it.

Or he's just busy with starving kids or something.

Stan only pulls back when his phone starts buzzing. It's probably Butters, because if he says he'll text you when he gets home, he'll do it. Stan grabs his phone and checks the message—he needs to know Butters is at least okay, y'know?

"Home"

That's all it says.

Butters is a chatty little fuck, even over text message. He overshares, it's in his nature. Stan doesn't like this at all. He frowns and looks up at Kyle, who's running his fingers over Stan's jaw, and wets his lips.

"Butters was acting weird, right?" he asks, and Kyle quirks his brow.

"Really?" he laughs.

"I'm serious, dude," Stan mutters. "I'm worried about him. He's been acting really weird for a while now."

Kyle purses his lips and twines his fingers in Stan's hair, silently indicating for him to continue.

"I mean," Stan sighs. "Like, he got home, but I don't know. I feel weird. Do you—will you go check on him with me?"

Kyle nods and looks down, hooking his fingers into Stan's belt loops as he heaves a sigh. "Yeah, dude," he says. Stan grins at him and, not sure of what to do, sort of just envelops him in a bear hug and pulls him into a brisk walk toward Butters' house.

The walk isn't long, but it feels like it's taking forever. Kyle's walking closer to him than he has in a long while, at least since they were kids. Stan's gut is twisted up all funky, and more than anything he wants to take Kyle's hand in his and squeeze, but they just kissed. It's not like they're married or anything, right?

"So," Kyle breaks the silence. "We kissed."

Stan's voice cracks in a laugh as he nods, "Yeah… Yeah, I guess we did."

Kyle nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I wasn't fucking around or anything," he says. "I mean—I wanted to. Still want to. Wanted to for a long time."

Stan can't help the intake of breath, or the fact that his legs stop working for a brief moment. Kyle wanted—with him?

"Nice fucking timing, dick," he laughs and shakes his head. Kyle grins back and shrugs.

"I'm the master," he says, and laughs when Stan flips him off. Stan feels his face get hot when Kyle slings his arm around his shoulder and they keep walking. There's something about Kyle that's always made Stan feel good and safe, and it's quelling his nerves as far as Butters goes.

Kyle's got a way of reminding Stan that everything's going to be okay.

Except, when they get to Butters' house the door is ajar. That's a major no-no with the Stotches, and Butters long broke the habit of leaving the door open when they were younger.

"Shit."

Stan takes off at a sprint, leaving a confused Kyle shouting behind him. Stan can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he pushes his way into the house. It's always so neat and sterile… it really makes Stan uncomfortable.

"Butters?" he calls, and after a moment there's no answer.

Shit, shit, shit. He takes the stairs two at a time and goes into his room. The light's on, but he's not in there. Stan frowns and starts looking around, making sure everything's in order. He hears a thud come from the stairwell and snorts.

"Okay there, sparky?" he calls.

"Eat my ass, Stan," Kyle comes back, and Stan barks out a laugh.

"Rain-check, dude," he snerks back.

"Whatever, I gotta take a wicked piss," Kyle says, and Stan can hear the eye-roll from here. Kyle's got some of the heaviest footfalls Stan has ever heard, can hear him plod all the way to bathroom and open the door.

"Oh, holy fucking shit!" Kyle shouts, voice unlike how Stan has ever heard it. It's the sound of someone who's just seen something soul-shattering, and it makes Stan scramble to him so fast that he almost trips over his feet.

Kyle's pressed flush against the wall directly opposite the bathroom door, and has even pushed a few pictures off the wall in his haste to get as far back as possible.

Stan is ninety percent sure that he's not seeing what's in front of him. Like, he knows he's lucid and that he's not dreaming, but… but holy mother of fuck, this isn't happening.

Butters is crumpled on a heap on the floor in a—oh fucking god—in a pool of blood? That can't be right.

Except for the fact that Stan thinks it might be.

"That's blood," Stan's voice cracks.

"Oh, no fucking shit, Stan!" Kyle shouts back.

"Well, fucking do something!" Stan snaps as he goes into the bathroom to crouch beside Butters' body. He looks back up at Kyle only to find that he hasn't moved yet. "Kyle, are you fucking serious? Call 911, dude!"

"I—" Stan can hear the 'can't' forming in the back of his throat, but Kyle holds it back. "Don't touch him, Stan," he mutters as he scrabbles for his phone. He punches in the number and starts nervously talking to an operator while Stan puts a hand on Butters' cheek. He's still warm, thank God, and if Stan puts his fingers under Butters' nose, he can faintly feel air ghosting out of him.

"Hey, he's still breathing, dude," Stan says shakily, and he sort of just drops next to him. He doesn't care that he's sitting in a puddle of blood, just that Butters is apparently alive and that help is on the way. Butters is sickly pale, but Stan still pulls him up so his head is resting on the lap. He runs his fingers over Butters' cheek and pets his hands through Butters' hair. It's shorter now, cut close to his head—almost military length. Dressed up all nice, brand new haircut… apart from the blood and the lack of life in his cheeks, he looks like a grownup. Like his dad or something.

The sight alone is enough to make Stan's throat close up.

"Butters," he chokes softly. "Just… just hang on dude."

He looks up at Kyle, who's not speaking, who barely looks like he's able to process what he's seeing, and tries to give him the most sympathetic look possible. Kyle just shakes his head and, without a word, turns on his heel and heads downstairs.

Shit. Kyle can't go—he's the type of person who knows what to do in that kind of situation. He'd call Butters' parents, or run back to the church and tell them or something… he knows how to get shit done. All Stan's good at is holding bloody people and whispering nice things to them.

"Dude, you can't fucking cut out on me, you little shit," Stan mutters, shakily running his fingers over the blood on Butters' cheek. "Kyle kissed me. Or, I guess I kissed him. You cannot fucking leave this earth before I get to tell you about his dick, fucker."

Butters is unresponsive, so Stan does the only thing he can bring himself to do—he just sits there, pets Butters' hair, and waits.

Stan decides not to move until the paramedics get there. Butters doesn't stop bleeding, but apart from grabbing a few towels off of the nearby rack and putting pressure on his arms, Stan doesn't know what to do. Everything's kind of a blur, and it only gets worse when Kyle appears at the doorway, not with paramedics, but with Butters' parents.

His mom lets out this mind altering scream and starts batting at Stan, shooing him out of the way so she can take his place, while his dad crouches beside them and looks on, horrified, too stunned to even try to help.

Stan then remembers that this isn't the first time they must be feeling this—Butters has fake-died lots of times in the last seventeen years. This is different than hurling a pig off a building or setting him adrift down a river in a car, though. It's very obviously Butters who's bleeding out on the neat, pristine floor that Stan has seen him clean so many times; it's very much their bright, happy-go-lucky son lying near lifeless in a pool of his own blood with a razorblade glinting menacingly near his fingers.

When the paramedics get there, it turns into kind of a shit show. They ask who found him, and a few more questions Stan can't quite remember, but must have answered. He doesn't even realize Kyle hasn't been beside him until he reappears and pulls him downstairs and onto the couch. Stan doesn't sit, because he knows he's messy, but stands close by.

The front door is still open, and Stan can see people looking inside, craning their necks to see what's going on, but not actually interfering. Stan's grateful for that—he doesn't know that he could actually put words to what he's just seen.

It looks like he's doing better than Kyle, though. Stan doesn't think he's ever actually seen Kyle stunned into silence before. He swallows back a big lump in his throat and strokes Kyle's frizzy hair.

"He left notes," Kyle finally says, and shifts to reach into the pocket of his big bulky jacket. He pulls out a piece of paper. "This one's for you… I left the one he wrote for his parents in his room."

A little bile kicks up into Stan's throat when he grabs the paper from Kyle. He reads over the words, but none of them stick. He sees things like "I love you" and "sorry I wasn't a good friend" and something about porn, but Stan's brain is too full to even think about it. He stuffs the letter into his pocket; he'll read it later, when he knows Butters is okay.

There's more commotion when the paramedics bring Butters down the stairs on this giant stretcher and take him outside. The people looking on in front of the house break out into a dull roar of speculation when they see Butters all bloodied. Stan and Kyle follow quickly behind Butters' parents—at least, Stan does. Kyle can't seem to leave the front porch. So, while Mrs. Stotch climbs into the back of the ambulance and Mr. Stotch herds Stan toward the car, Kyle just stands there. Stan's not sure if the immobility is a matter of can't or won't, but Stan can't be bothered by it right now. He gets in the car and watches as Kyle remains motionless, even once the ambulance is gone, even in the mirror of Mr. Stotch's car when he and Stan are already halfway down the street.

He just sits in the car, soaked in blood, and tries not to cry.

oooooo

Coming back hits him like a freight train this time. Normally his spirit is usually all back and tucked away the moment his body regenerates, but something hitches it this time and he slams back down fully grown, panting and wondering what the fuck just happened.

The shitty alarm clock says it's Christmas Eve, and if that's the time, his family's already long arrived to midnight mass. The one at their church starts at nine, just to make it easier on the old folks in their town, and yet Kenny's family never manages to make it on time.

There's a sense of panic deep in Kenny's chest that's not going away, one far past catching his breath. Every particle in his body is thrumming; his heart is slamming against his chest so hard it almost hurts. Then he remembers how he died and when he died, and how fucking helpless Butters looked when he'd left his house, and how much more pitiful he must have looked when he realized that Kenny wasn't coming back.

The thought alone is enough to make Kenny feel like jumping in front of a moving train.

He rolls out of bed, ignoring the painful stretch of his muscles, and scrambles to find his boots and a pair of pants. He doesn't need a shirt—he's been swaddled in one of Kevin's old sweatshirts. There are holes in the pits, and it kind of smells like cat piss, but fuck it. He's got the rest of his natural born lives to be in clean clothes, but right now he feels like he's only going to get one chance to attempt to apologize to Butters. He pockets his phone and his keys (which always somehow mysteriously turn back up on his nightstand no matter how long ago he died), and heads out of the already empty house.

It's not easy, moving fast in these big clunky boots so soon after regenerating, and it's a little colder than he anticipated… and of course this is one of the only sweaters he owns that doesn't have a hood. He trudges along the sidewalk toward Butters' house, careful to avoid any and all things that could potentially get him killed.

He checks the time on his phone.

Apart from discerning that Butters is probably at mass, he sees that he's also got a few missed calls from him, but no messages.

Shit.

A shock of panic rides through him again, and immediately he starts running as fast as he can toward Butters' house. He's by no means graceful, and when a body has never run before, things can get messy. He slips a few times, but falls only once, and when he realizes he's made it to Butters' house alive, he counts it as a small triumph.

There's someone sitting out on his front porch, but it's definitely not Butters. It is, in fact, Kyle sitting there with his knees to his chest, like he's just seen a ghost. There's a certain crackle in the air, one that always follows the calm after a raging storm of commotion, and suddenly Kenny starts to feel very, very sick.

He approaches Kyle tentatively, and when Kyle outright fails to acknowledge him for a few moments, Kenny knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.

"Kyle?" he says softly, and Kyle jumps like he thought he was still alone or something. Once he registers that it's Kenny standing there, he shoots up to his feet and rather uncharacteristically pulls him into a hug. Kyle is cold, colder than he should be, so Kenny grabs him by the arm and pulls him into the Stotches' house.

"Dude, what the fuck is happening?" he asks, looking at Kyle imploringly. Kyle just shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Butters," is all he gets out before he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "He, um… he tried to kill himself."

It's the first time Kyle's said the words, Kenny can tell, and for a moment they don't even faze him. Kenny almost asks how he did it, what he used, because when you're as seasoned in suicides and death as Kenny is, cause of death and methods of suicide are actually kind of an interesting topic.

And then he remembers that Butters can't come back like he can and a big lead ball of disbelief just swings out and hits Kenny square in the gut. He runs up the stairs (ignoring Kyle's protests), like he's going to find Butters tucked away and safe up there and this will all be some horrible, tasteless joke.

The bathroom door is wide open, and on the floor Kenny can see smears of dark red blood grinning eerily up at him. He immediately closes the door and tries to remember he's seen much worse.

It sure doesn't feel like it, though.

"'the fuck, I told you not to come up here," comes Kyle's voice from beside him. Kenny looks over at him, silently demanding an explanation. This is… fuck, it's making him a little sick.

Kyle just looks at the carpet as he takes a breath, "Stan and I just found him like that, all right? He was just in the bathroom, already passed out, we called 911 and his parents, and that was it. We saw him… we saw him before, and he was acting really distant and shit. I don't know, dude, talk to Stan about it or something."

The words tumble around in Kenny's head, but only barely manage to make sense. "Is he okay?" he asks, a little louder than intended, and Kyle winces.

"I don't know," he says. "He cut himself up pretty bad… They just took him to the hospital a little while ago. I just—I couldn't go."

A vision of Butters all cut up on the floor makes its way into Kenny's head and he feels his chest get tight. His brain is screaming right now, yelling at him to do a million different things at once, but the only one he really wants to do right now is curl up on the floor and cry. But, that won't help anything, so he just turns back to Kyle and looks at him. He doesn't even realize he's standing there with his mouth agape until he finally gets around to speaking.

"Dude, take me," he blurts out. He doesn't even consider that Kyle is probably in much worse shape than he's letting on, he just needs to see Butters. He can't help but think he's responsible for this whole thing in some way—over the last few months, Butters hasn't exactly proven himself to be the pinnacle of mental stability, and now Kenny feels like a total fuckwit for not saying something about it.

"Kenny," Kyle pleads, but Kenny's not letting up. If Kyle doesn't take him, he will steal a car and drive there himself, and he's counting on Kyle to realize this.

"Please, Kyle," he says. "You don't have to go in with me or anything, I just need to be there."

Kyle looks at him, eyes narrowed, but ultimately he concedes and starts back down the stairs. They have to walk back to Kyle's house, which isn't far, but everything seems to be taking forever right now. Kenny's died enough times to know that it only takes a second, and every single second that ticks by is another one that could mean he never gets to see Butters again.

Kyle doesn't even bother going into his house to tell his parents what's happening, just gets into the car with Kenny and starts off silently down the street. It's a bit of a ride to get to Hell's Pass, and they're silent for the whole of it. Kenny respects that Kyle doesn't want to talk about it; after a long time he started to become grateful that his friends couldn't remember any of his grisly deaths. Stan and Kyle may have seen Kenny in much more gut-wrenching deaths, but Butters sliced up by his own hand in his own blood is something they will never forget seeing.

When they get to the hospital, Kyle parks and goes into the ER with him. Actually, they stop halfway to the entrance and Kyle quickly loans Kenny one of the, like, six shirts he's wearing under his jacket. Apparently, he thinks it's inappropriate for Kenny to enter a hospital in the sweatshirt he's got on.

Nonetheless, he's grateful.

They find the Stotches and Stan fairly quickly. Mr. Stotch is pacing, too energized and worried to keep still, while Stan is sitting with his arm around Mrs. Stotch (covered in blood, oh holy fuck he's covered in blood), comforting her as she cries onto his shoulder. It's an odd sight to see, the Stotches so worried about their son, but they're so wrapped up in everything that they don't even notice Kenny and Kyle sit down across from Stan.

"Hey, guys," Stan says, looking all watery eyed once he realizes that Kyle is there.

"How is he?" Kenny asks, and Stan shakes his head.

"We don't know yet," he mutters. Terror settles over Kenny as he sits back in his chair.

There is actually a possibility that Butters won't be okay.

As much as he doesn't want to go there, his brain starts conjuring up these horrible half-baked thoughts of life without Butters. Kenny would never see him smile again, or be able to make him laugh so hard that he can't breathe. He'd never have that solid, warm body to hold again, or that soft hair to bury his nose in after a long day. No more making faces at each other during classes, or hanging out in his backyard and scooping up the malformed dead leaves that have fallen off the tree, or kissing when no one's watching.

If Butters dies right now, he'll never know how amazing he is… was?

Is.

He's pulled out of his thoughts by Mrs. Stotch sniffling and reaching forward to grab a tissue out of the box on the table in front of her. "I just don't understand," she sobs and dabs under her eyes. "He was always such a ha-happy boy."

The words stick like pitch in Kenny's ears, and suddenly it clicks. It's taken this long to get it, but it's very obvious that Butters wasn't happy—optimistic as fuck, sure, but not happy. And by no means 'okay'.

"Linda, come on," Mr. Stotch chimes in now, trying to sound collected even though it's obvious that he's not. "Now's not the time to get hysterical. The doctors are doing what they can."

Kenny almost reminds him that your child attempting suicide is the perfect time to be hysterical, but he holds his tongue. Now isn't the time to be a smartass, and he has the feeling Mr. Stotch won't hesitate to ask him to leave if he says something stupid.

Mrs. Stotch looks up at Stan then and wipes under her eyes again, "Did he ever say anything that made you think… well, think that he'd do something like this?"

Stan shakes his head. And even though Kenny could give her a laundry list of things that, in retrospect, should have been big enough hints, he keeps his mouth shut. He just wants Butters to be okay-he'll detail to the Stotches just how hard they fucked their only kid over later... maybe once Kenny and Butters are together again and long gone from here.

"Oh, God," Mrs. Stotch just moans. "Why would he do this?"

"My, uh," Kyle pipes up, only to recede into himself when everyone's eyes settle on him. "People just give up on life sometimes, you know? They don't think life'll get better."

Linda howls at this, and now Mr. Stotch sits on the other side of her and pulls her close, just to muffle her against his chest. Kenny feels a pang of sadness in his stomach.

This is the only time he's seen proof that Butters' parents actually do care about him.

Kenny's not sure how much time passes after that, but a doctor comes in after, looking equal parts somber and relieved.

"He's stable," he says, and Kenny doesn't hear much of anything after that. He's more relieved than he's ever been, because all 'stable' means to him right now is that he'll be able to hold and kiss Butters again, and after this shit he will do so for as long and as often as he goddamned well pleases. With all these thoughts flitting through his head, it's only natural that he gets up when the doctor tells the Stotches they can go back and see Butters, quick to follow behind them.

Except, the doctor puts a hand on his chest and reprimands him, tired but firm, "Family only right now, I'm sorry."

Kenny frowns, "That's bullshit," he comes back, before he can even think about it. Everyone's gotten to see Butters today except Kenny. He wants to see with his own fucking eyes that Butters is okay. "I want to see him."

"Kenny," Mrs. Stotch says and dabs at her eyes with a tissue. "Please don't make this man's life any harder than it has to be."

"Fuck that, it doesn't have to be difficult," Kenny asserts, anger bubbling up in his stomach now. "Just let me back with them."

"I'm sorry, young man, I can't do that," the doctor sighs.

"I want to see him," Kenny comes back again, almost shouting, and Mrs. Stotch sighs.

"Sweetheart, this is not about you," she says very plainly, and for a second it almost sounds like she hasn't been crying. "You boys should go home, get some rest. He'll be here tomorrow."

"Exactly," the doctor nods. "I'd be happy to let you boys see him tomorrow. Just go on home and we'll let you in when you come back."

Kenny raises his eyebrows, about to lash out, but he knows better than to make a scene. Seventeen years of being white trash may make it hard to hold your tongue, but it's not impossible. He just sits back down in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table.

"I'll wait, thanks."

Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing and, as always, being patient!

Chapter title from Ripple by The Grateful Dead.