The story continues. Sorry it's getting a little dark. Promise a lighter chapter next one okay!
Once again, trigger warning
Stan remembers very little after that. The drink, combined with the abject trauma of it all, effectively wipes him out; blocks the memory from access. Perhaps it's for the best, really. It's not like watching your best friend get blown to smithereens was on anybody's bucket list, immortality aside.
They had been messing around by the train tracks, and after that – his mind is blank.
His next memory is wildly juxtaposed from the last. It's the following encounter, and it occurs at about five o'clock in the morning:
"Jesus, Stan, get yourself together." he finds himself whispering drunkenly to his own reflection, staring hard at it as he splashes water from the tap into his face in an attempt to cool himself down. He can hear his own breathing rushing through his ears; hard and erratic; his heartbeat thumping hard in his chest. "What's wrong with you?" he asks himself.
There's a tentative knock on the bathroom door and Stan squeezes his eyes shut, trying his absolute best to ignore it. "Go away," he hits back weakly, suppressing a retch. "Who is it?" he slurs, after a seconds thought.
"Please, Stan…" comes the voice, making him feel even queasier. "It's me."
Was that… Kyle? What the hell was Kyle doing here?
His body equates the name with a strange sinking feeling of dread, which must be new. With some sort of foggy recognition, he wonders if he's dreaming. His drink-addled mind concludes that it's the only explanation for why he's in this bitch of a situation right now, and why Kyle is apparently here.
Opening his eyes to stare at his reflection, he ponders this thought further. If this is really a dream, then why does it feel like his heart might actually explode?
He tries not to focus on how bloodshot his eyes are before feeling himself almost retch into the sink again, holding his vomit back with… limited success.
"Oh, God," he says to his reflection. "Fuck."
His reflection stares back at him judgementally. He flips it the bird.
"Stan, are you ok? Please can you let me in?" Kyle's voice sounds just a notch below desperate, and despite himself, Stan turns around and unlocks the door to let his friend (ex-friend?) into the bathroom. Kyle is clutching a glass of water in one hand and some pills in the other hand.
"Am I dreaming?" Stan asks, his eyes bleary with tears.
Kyle holds his breath. "Nope" he replies tersely.
Stan's breathing seems to amount to frantic gulps of air as Kyle takes him by the shoulders and firmly commandeers him to the toilet seat. "C'mon, Stan," he cajoles, his voice gentle. "Drink some water, ok? It'll make you feel better." Kyle hands him the glass of water but Stan's hands shake so much that the glass falls straight onto the floor and shatters.
Kyle swears and crouches down to pick up the pieces. "Crap, ok…" he grizzles. "I had that coming. Let's get you out of here before you cut yourself," he says to himself.
"I'm so sorry, Kyle," Stan whispers pathetically to his friend, his head falling into his hands as he just about stops himself to from falling on the floor.
"Don't worry," Kyle mutters and takes Stan's arm, a little forceful. "Come on, dude. Upstairs bathroom. Let's go."
Stan faintly remembers being led up a set of steps, and that's where his memory tapers off again.
Kyle, on the other hand, has an extremely vivid memory of that night.
He had been soundly sleeping in his double bed when his phone had woken him up by ringing. The name 'Stan Marsh' was lit up, so naturally, he answers it.
He blurrily mutters something into the receiver akin to 'what the hell are you doing calling me at this time?', only to hear Bebe's dulcet tones, having apparently subdued Stan, stolen his phone and, not knowing what else to do, called him.
She doesn't waste too much breath informing him of the situation. Stan was skulking about the town wasted on God-knows-what and apparently throwing himself in front of trains?
Kyle doesn't exactly have a choice, here. He promptly gets out of bed and starts getting dressed – all the while, still on the phone.
"Why did you call me?" he asks her, shoving on the first pair of jeans he can find and a dirty t-shirt.
"Because, Kyle," she replies, sounding on the verge of tears. "It's Stan. Who else was I supposed to call?"
Well, that was reason enough, he supposes.
He throws on a coat and some shoes, climbs into his freezing car in the middle of the night and tells Bebe to hang tight; he'd be there in a matter of hours.
It takes him less than that, actually. The highway is thankfully empty that time of night, allowing Kyle to drive at least 20 above the speed limit the entire way. The whole car ride there, he feels himself tensely hunched over the steering wheel and hyper aware of the icy roads for every minute of every mile. The radio is playing some 70s themed rock show, something he'd probably usually enjoy, but he's hardly concentrating on that.
The way he's driving, he's a little terrified of himself. Foot to the floor, barely stopping to glance at speed signs or red lights. He's especially scared when he checks the time into South Park, and realises that it had only taken him an hour to make the journey.
His stereotypical Jew mother would have had a conniption. May she never find out.
It doesn't take him long to navigate South Park. Bebe sent him her address – a small terraced house in Middle Park. He locates it fairly easily, parks out front on the street. His parking is terrible at the best of times, but tonight he almost entirely mounts the curb at a 70% angle.
He raps his knuckles on the door with a rather intense urgency; expecting the worst.
Bebe answers the door looking awful. It sounds pretty harsh to say it, but it's genuinely the first thing he notices as he immediately pulls her in for a hug.
He wasn't that close to Bebe these days, but it seemed necessary. Her eyes are all puffy from crying, her hair is tied up in a messy bun. She was standing in her pyjamas, which were caked in puke stains.
He doesn't ask about the pyjamas, but he's pretty sure that they aren't her puke stains.
"I'm so glad you're here, Kyle," she says to him tearfully, after letting go from his arms. "It's been such a night." She stands aside to let him in.
"Is Stan okay?" are the first words from his lips. "Where is he?"
She barely utters another word to Kyle, all but hauling him into the living room to deal with Stan's mess.
Ah yes, Stan.
Stan who just so happened to be face down in (what Kyle assumed was) his own puke on Bebe's living room floor.
Which had pretty much answered his earlier question about why Bebe was covered in vomit.
To his credit, Kyle doesn't voice a single word of complaint the whole time. He addresses the situation quickly and effectively, pulling a rather semi-conscious Stan up, hauling him into the backseat of his car and promptly locking the doors.
Once he's managed to cram the last facet of Stan's unconscious body into the backseat of his car, Kyle breathes out a sigh and returns back inside. Then, he spends the next ten to twenty minutes scrubbing the absolute shit out of her carpet in a vague and probably futile attempt at getting out Stan's puke stains. After he's done, he stands back to admire his handiwork. They both do.
"Not great, but it's better," he mumbles, his tone apologetic.
"You didn't have to do that, Kyle…"
"Sure I did."
Her apartment is slight mess, but nothing too crazy. It still stunk of vomit, but Kyle thought that was best not mentioned.
After he's done with that, he sinks down onto a chair in her kitchen and lets his head rest in his hand for a second. Time finally seems to slow down for him, and after another minute, he noticed Bebe watching him with a little caution out of the corner of the room. He looks up at her, and neither of them speaks for a minute or so.
Kyle decides to break the ice first.
"Bebe," he starts, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "You mind filling me in on what the hell happened tonight?" he pauses. "And – more importantly - are you okay?" he asks.
The question answers itself, but Kyle needs verbal answers, and right away.
Bebe's face crumbles. She sits down next to him, her legs wobbly and clearly still shaken. "Oh, god," she starts, shoving her nose into a crumpled tissue and blowing hard. She sniffles and manages a small, pathetic smile. "Where should I start? I wasn't even there for most of it. I just caught the tail end… Craig called me up. He didn't know what to do."
"Do you want a drink?" Kyle asks.
Bebe nods gratefully, so Kyle obediently bounds back up from the chair he's just parked himself onto. He wanders to the kitchen and spies an open bottle of red wine on the counter, rummaging through Bebe's kitchen cabinets quickly to find her a suitable glass. Returning to the living room to hand it to her, he poses the following question. "So, carry on. Craig was there, too? I'm confused. Where even is Craig?"
She accepts the glass gratefully. "Did you want one?" she asks absently.
"I'm driving, but thanks," he shrugs.
She nods, blinking in surprise as if this is new information. "Oh, sure. Of course. Sorry…" she lets out a low chuckle, shaking her head. "I'm all over the place." She pauses to take a sip of wine. "Craig…" she smacks her lips. "I think he's at the tracks, dealing with Kenny's body." She speaks a little quicker as she begins to remember. "Right, so the three of them went out drinking, as usual. Except… they were seriously pissed. Wasted drunk." She groaned. "And you know what Stan and Kenny are like when they've been drinking. They're all over the place; they do stupid stuff," she raises a brow. Kyle doesn't interrupt; he lets her finish telling the story. "Kenny… he was standing in front of a train, for some reason…"
"I gather Kenny is dead," Kyle says dully, finally understanding why Bebe seems so shaken. "Right."
"Yeah." She rubs her eyes, clearly exhausted. "And… uh, I got a call from Craig. He was drunk, too, and kinda freaking out. Kenny died right in front of them. He was understandably shaken." she explains, suddenly gripping onto Kyle's arm and looking his dead in the eyes.
"That makes sense, I guess."
"And when I got there," Bebe continues. "Stan was… a total mess. Crying, shouting, being sick. He was in a really bad way, Kyle. I've… I've never seen him like that before."
Kyle takes a large gulp of breath and keeps his face and voice carefully level. "I'm really sorry you had to deal with it," he says softly, his eyebrows knitting. "But don't worry. I'm going to take care of Stan." He pauses. "Do you have Craig's number?"
Bebe seems relieved, blowing air out of her mouth. "Thank you," she whispers. "Yeah, I do. Take my phone," she says, holding it out for him.
Kyle accepts it, scrolling through her contacts until he finds Craig Tucker. He presses the call button, holding it up to his ear and listening intently.
There's a slight pause. "…Craig?" he says. "It's Kyle. I'm with Bebe."
Bebe hears Craig on the other end, his voice strung out and tense. "Is she okay? What's happening?"
"It's fine," Kyle shoots a look at Bebe. "I'm dealing with Stan, and Bebe is okay. Listen, Craig, do you need help with Kenny's body?"
"Yeah, man," Craig says, his voice cracking. "I can't do shit. He's in bits. I can't leave him like this, it's a mess."
"Fuck," Kyle swears, slapping a hand over his mouth. "Okay, dude. Go home. If he's not in one piece, there's really fuck all you can do about it. I'll call someone about it in the morning, I know a guy…" he pauses, swallowing. "Do you need a ride home?"
"…no, man. I'm just… gonna walk back to my place. It's not too far. I need to sober up, anyway. This shit is messed up."
"You sure?" Kyle asks. "It's no problem."
"No. I'll be alright. Just… take care of Stan, dude. He's…" Craig trails off, unsure what the next part of that sentence should be.
Kyle clenches his jaw. "I know. I will. Take care, Craig. I'll send you my number in case you change your mind."
"Bye."
He hangs up the phone and his eyes flit back to Bebe. A yawn threatens to take over his features and he smiles at her a little apologetically. "I better get on. It's late, and I have a lot of driving to do," he explains, his sentence tapering off as he sees the look on her face.
Bebe nods a little sadly. "Okay."
Kyle hesitates, sending her a second glance. "Bebe… tell me, honestly. Are you really doing okay?"
She shakes her head. "No," she mouths.
Kyle's hand instinctively reaches up to touch her on the shoulder. "What's going on?" he asks. He wonders if he's overstepping his boundaries, but then, this is the same girl that told the whole class that she wanted to wear his ass as a hat, so perhaps there hadn't been any boundaries in the first place.
"Between you and me?" she makes him promise, her tears threatening to spill over her cheeks.
"Bebe," he says, as if it's a stupid thing to ask. They had history, after all. He knows her well; and she knew him pretty well, too. "Of course."
"You might want to sit down," she warns. He does so, a little worried about what she's about to say. She takes a deep breath, then: "So, I'm pregnant. There."
Kyle can't help but wonder if he was really equipped to deal with this kind of magnitude of information. "Ok…" he responds slowly. His next question is heavily implied in his tone.
They lock eyes. "Kenny," she whispers, answering him in a daze.
"Fuck."
Kyle prided himself also on being a rational person. So, when he hears that his ex-girlfriend is pregnant with the child of his deadbeat, dropout, drug addict best friend who had just died… he's pretty proud his rather minimal reaction. Considering the gravity of the information, that is.
"Bebe, what are you going to-" he starts, but Bebe immediately cuts him off.
"I don't know!" she wails suddenly, placing her head in her hands. "I don't know, okay?! Jesus, Broflovski. We all don't have everything figured out like you." She sighs, fiddling with a loose string that's come out of the fabric of her couch cover. "This is all my fault. I told Kenny tonight. That's the whole reason they were out in the first place - drowning their sorrows, no doubt."
Kyle cocked his head to the side, inquisitively. "Their… sorrows?" he repeats, confused.
"Listen, Kyle. Stan isn't exactly stable at the moment. Even before you…" Bebe glances up at Kyle and then stops herself, taking in a big gulp of air. "No," she self-censors, shaking her head. "This isn't my place."
There's a pause as Bebe takes another sip of her wine and draws out a long exhale.
Kyle knits his eyebrows together. "The cliff's notes?" he asks flippantly.
"He can tell you himself, when he's sober," she shoots Kyle a rather meaningful look.
Kyle nods in understanding, but shrugs. "He's an adult, Bebe. I know he drinks a lot, but…" he hesitates, his jaw clenching. "It's just how he's always been."
Bebe stares at him darkly, her voice sharp. "Kyle," she says, the look in her eyes like fire. It hurts to look at. She points a finger at him. "Don't hurt him."
Kyle swallows, pretending that he doesn't know what she's talking about. He glances nervously back out the window, spying Stan sleeping now in the backseat of his car. "Okay," he mutters again, checking the time on his phone.
It's 5am.
"Oh, Jesus. It's five in the morning," he groans, throwing his head back and rubbing his eyes. He eyes her up cautiously. "You really need to get some sleep," he tells her, standing up from her couch and looking around. "And I'm gonna take Stan back to Denver." He pauses, placing a hand on Bebe's shoulder. "Seriously, I'm going to call you tomorrow to check on you, okay?"
"You're really leaving?" she asks defeatedly. Her face crumples up into such a pathetic show of misery, and she pouts. "Please… stay. Kenny's dead, Kyle. He's the father of my child and he's dead."
Kyle's stomach twists around in guilt, and he realises that despite the fact that they hadn't been dating since high school, he still lost all ability to say refuse Bebe what she wanted. Not when she brought out the puppy dog eyes. The girl had wrapping guys around her little finger down to a goddamn art. He almost had to respect it.
So that is why instead of leaving her there and then, he had dutifully walked all the way to town to buy her late-night pizza and responsibly denied her request for a pack of smokes and stayed with her for the next hour or so. In fact, he had waited until she was fast asleep on her own couch before he quietly stood up, fishing a blanket that had been tossed on a nearby armchair and lightly placing it over her, moving the pizza box to the table and sighing heavily.
And then…
Then he had to deal with Stan.
Perhaps that was unfair. Stan had actually been relatively easy to deal with, at least at that point.
In his drunken stupor, he'd fallen into what could have passed for a mild coma. Kyle had to restrain himself from checking whether his friend had actually just done a Kenny and died in his backseat about three or four times on the way back to Denver. At one point, he was so concerned for his friend's safety that he'd actually pulled into the hard shoulder on the highway just to poke him until he made some sort of noise to confirm his continued existence here on earth.
It's better if Stan comes back with him, he reasons. This way, at least, Kyle can keep an eye on him.
He rationalises it like this: sometimes Kenny took a few nights to get back from Hell, and he really didn't want Stan alone in some shithole apartment. That's how he rationalised it to himself, anyway.
When he gets in – finally – he doesn't stop moving for even a second. He hauls Stan's ass inside, weekend at Bernie's style. Barely managing to drag a semi-lucid Stan up the stairs, he shoves him down on his bed, takes off his shoes and throws a blanket over him.
He's only been downstairs for a minute or two when he hears movement upstairs, and his heart sinks.
He had been desperately hoping that the alcohol induced coma that Stan had drunk himself into would have lasted all through the morning - not end abruptly when the guy had woken up and proceeded to have what appeared to be a panic attack in Kyle's bathroom.
Which, of course, (because God hates Kyle for being Jewish) is what actually happened.
After trying and failing to calm his friend down, he'd decided that this situation was clearly beyond his capabilities, deciding instead to entrust his faith into the convenient reality of chemical sedatives.
This meant sleeping pills.
He fishes out a couple Ativan from his medicine cabinet- kept for emergencies, really- and keeps Stan awake enough to force them down his throat. When that's done, and Stan has managed to spill an entire glass of water down his front, Kyle checks the time again.
It's eight in the morning.
"Crap," he whispers to himself. He types out a quick text to his boss – makes up a family emergency, something like that. Couldn't come into work today or tomorrow. He'd make up the hours, somehow.
He has to get rid of Stan's jeans, too. They were covered in his own puke, and that's not something Kyle was especially keen to have in his own bed overnight. He chucks them in the washing machine and leaves it on for the night.
After managing - at great expense - to bustle Stan's newly unconscious self into his bed, Kyle crouches against the wall in his hallway.
And then he finally, finally, falls asleep on the floor.