Stan barely remembered falling asleep that night. The last thing he could clearly recall was sprawling out on the couch as he watched a Japanese movie with Kyle, a Bluetooth speaker playing Gorillaz in the background. But he found himself waking up around eight in the morning.

He had a crick in his back after having slept on the sofa all night. Slightly dazed, he yawned and looked around.

"Good morning," Kyle said. He was sitting right beside him on the couch, leaning back against a pillow, a phone in his hands, "I hope I didn't wake you?"

"No, you didn't," Stan mumbled, rubbing his face awake. He stretched his arms way over his head, his biceps wonderfully sore from yesterday's workout. He let out a sigh of contentment.

"Wow, I can hear your back cracking from here," Kyle exclaimed, eyebrows raised, "That must've felt good."

"You have no idea," Stan yawned again.

"How'd you sleep?" Kyle asked.

"Like a baby. You?"

A flash of guilt passed Kyle's face, "I, um. I didn't really sleep last night."

"Oh," Stan felt guilty, too, "On purpose, or-?"

"No. Just couldn't fall asleep. Still getting used to not having the pills, you know?" Kyle shrugged, before turning back to the phone in his hands.

It was just then that Stan realized.

"Kyle," Stan said, feeling like he had been slapped awake, "How did you get your phone?"

"Oh, no. This is yours, Stan," Kyle explained, "Don't be mad, I wasn't going through it or anything. I respect your privacy. It's just that while you were sleeping, a lot of people were trying to message you. Like, a lot. I just picked it up to see who was texting so much and why. Sorry, I hope you don't think-"

"-No, I'm not mad," Stan sat up on the sofa, "Here, lemme see."

He took his phone from Kyle's hands and started scrolling through the screen. Kyle hadn't been exaggerating when he said that a lot of people were trying to reach him. If anything, he had understated just how many people messaged him. It seemed as though the entire population of South Park had texted him at least five times or more.

"I think you need to get better at answering your phone, dude," Kyle said gently, "Some of those messages are two weeks old."

"Damn, really?" Stan was astounded, "I'm usually better at this. I mean, I'm on my phone a lot."

"Well a lot of stuff has happened in the last two weeks," Kyle said, looking a little guilty, "I guess you've been… preoccupied."

"That's a nice way of wording it," Stan sadly smiled. He turned back to his phone, reading that he had "156 Missed Messages." That was excluding the texts from group-chats.

He gave a low, long whistle.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad," Kyle chuckled, "Are you going to respond to any of them?"

"This might be a bad call on my part, but I don't really want to until later," Stan said, setting his phone aside, "What is it all the teenage girls are saying? 'Mental health first,' or something like that."

"I mean, take a break from social media if you want, Stan. I think that might actually be good for you and your mental health," Kyle offered, "I'd just check if any of those texts are emergencies first. A lot were coming in. It wouldn't hurt to check."

"They're not emergencies," Stan said, though he started to check them anyway, "If they were emergencies, they would call."

"Good point."

Stan was skimming through the messages to be sure, though he was mostly doing it to assure Kyle, not himself. He didn't read all one hundred and fifty six messages, of course, he only took the time to read a few.

For one thing, he read a recent message from Clyde:
Haven't seen u since Bebes party. U ok?

There was one from Bebe herself, in all caps:
YOU RUINED MY PARTY YOU A$$HOLE! IM NEVER INVITING YOU TO A PARTY EVER AGAIN YOU RUINED EVERYTHING HHHHH YOU ARE A BICTH

Despite Bebe's attempts to pose herself as a threat in that message, Stan could only laugh. Intimidation in real life was a world apart from intimidation by text. The message made Bebe sound like a whining toddler, not anything Stan had to worry about. It was even funnier that she misspelled "bitch."

He skimmed through a few more, mostly just for enjoyment. It seemed that most of the messages he missed were just memes from friends and questions about the party. But there was one text in particular that drew in his attention.

It was from Craig:
dude are you coming to the charity game? you've been out for a long time now. prolly you don't even know about it. just wanted to warn you that coach is gonna put Token on qb if you don't show. and we all know Token fkn sucks w communication. i refuse to play receiver for him. so come.

He sent another one only six minutes after he sent the first:
if you come to our game, i would be soooooo happy.

Now this was interesting.

Craig was Stan's favorite wide receiver on the high school football team. He never seemed to care about much of anything besides Tweak, (Craig just always had a blasé personality) but he still showed up to every game and every practice right on time. So over the years, Stan had grown to assume that Craig really valued the sport, but just didn't want to show it. He was actually quite skilled, too. He was one of the few people on the team that Stan could actually say he had faith in.

But they were off-season. They hadn't had a game in months. The only thing Stan and his football buddies had actively been doing as a team was getting together to train a few times a week, and maybe run a few practice passes. Craig had been to all of them, and so had Stan until recently. But now, all of a sudden, Craig was talking about some kind of actual game that was coming up.

From the texts alone, Stan couldn't tell right away if Craig was being serious or if this was some kind of joke. Craig had both the habit of playing text farces and the habit of sending the most random texts imaginable when he was high or drunk. Both habits happened often enough that Stan easily believed they could both apply to this instance.

But there seemed to be a strange likelihood of truth to his words. Craig spelled almost everything correctly, and he even used punctuation. Those were automatic signs that he was at least sober when he sent those texts.

Stan was about to call Craig to ask about it, but a raucous sound caught his attention.

He realized with a heavy heart that what he heard was Kyle's stomach growling. Even from the other side of the couch, he distinctly heard the bleak, distressing sound of hunger pains. Kyle just looked embarrassed, but the grave way he hugged his stomach said everything Stan needed to know.

"Oh, Kyle," Stan frowned, "If you were hungry, you should have woken me up. I would've gotten you anything."

"No, it's fine," Kyle played it off, "You were asleep, and I'm not even really that hungry."

As if on cue, Kyle's stomach immediately let out another angry sound.

It wasn't even comical, not in the slightest.

"Hey, let's try to eat some solid food today, okay, Kyle?" Stan proposed as lightly as he could.

Even with Stan's levity, Kyle was noticeably off-put by his suggestion. His uninjured foot started to tap on the ground, but he didn't say anything.

Stan tried not to bite his lip, "I know you don't want to throw up, but I'm pretty sure you won't, okay? We can just have soft foods if you want, but I really think you need something a little more than just a protein shake or broth."

Kyle nodded, though it looked like he didn't really agree.

Stan helped him get to the kitchen and sat him down in a chair. Just like yesterday, he prepared the food while he set up a Gorillaz playlist on the speaker. As the music started playing, Kyle eased, but only slightly. His posture was relaxed and his foot was tapping at a much slower pace, though hesitance was still present in his expression.

"So what time's your date with Kenny?" Stan asked, trying to loosen him up.

"Date? He's just coming over."

"Excuse me for trying to make a funny," Stan chortled dryly, mostly at himself. He was never skilled at telling jokes. The only times in his life that he was appropriately funny were when he didn't realize it, and a joke just flew over his head.

Peering back into the fridge, Stan asked over his shoulder, "So do you know what time he's coming over?"

"No. He didn't say last night," Kyle took a breath before suggesting, "You could unblock him and call him if you want to know for sure."

Stan swallowed, "Not just yet."

Kyle noticed his edge, but he didn't push anything, "Okay."

A few moments of silence passed, Stan working on breakfast wordlessly. The only sounds that permeated the kitchen were Kyle's foot steadily tapping and the Gorillaz music in the background.

Again, Stan didn't like this music. But at some point while he was making breakfast, he found himself actually nodding his head and humming along to a nice tune. He didn't even realize it at first, but when he did, he had to admit he was really impressed.

"Hey, Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"What's this song?"

"Oh no," Kyle smiled, "Are you going to block it and remove it from the playlist?"

"No, I actually really like this one," Stan smiled, too; not because he was happy, but because Kyle was smiling. He used a butter knife to slice an avocado as he casually asked, "What's the name of it?"

"'Dracula.' I think this is my favorite one."

Stan dropped the butter knife.

Kyle raised an eyebrow, "Everything okay in there?"

"Yeah," Stan said, stooping down to pick it up and throw it in the sink.

"Do you want help?"

"No, no I'm good. You just sit back," Stan said distractedly, his mind elsewhere.

For whatever reason, when Kyle said "Dracula," Stan found himself thinking back to Ike Broflovski. A chill crept up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck started to stand up. Though for the life of him, Stan couldn't pinpoint why his body was responding this way.

He thought back to the time when he called him a vampire. They had been right here, in Stan's own house, when Ike said it. The words themselves were not entirely brash in nature, but to this day, their impressions still left Stan with emotional scars. By calling him a vampire, he was accusing Stan of "sucking the life" out of Kyle for his own benefit, while Kyle followed after him like a moth drawn to a flame.

That was seconds before Ike said that Kyle might have a "milder version of Stockholm syndrome." The creep.

Another distasteful memory conjured from the back of Stan's brain when he reflected on the first time Kyle fainted. It was back in the farmhouse bathroom. Stan had cradled him in his arms for God knows how long on the tiled floors, murmuring little nothings and everythings practically inaudibly against his skin.
He remembered asking Kyle if he also thought Stan was a vampire.

He hated to accept that at the time, but the sentence fit perfectly. Kyle had the life sucked out of him. He was a total drone in Stan's arms, while he feverishly fussed over him. But being unconscious, of course, Kyle was never able to give an answer.

It might be too much to assume that Kyle even heard the question at all. The state he was in, he probably was not aware of anything happening around him. He might not have been remotely cognizant of the cold tiles, the green grapes, or the stomach pump- the stomach pump that Ike was operating.

Stan set the butter knife down, leaning his hands down on the kitchen counter when he asked, "Kyle, why do you think Kenny showed up yesterday, but not your brother?"

Kyle just raised an eyebrow, "Where's this coming from?"

Stan let out a terse noise, "Nowhere. It's nothing. I'm just- I'm only thinking. Okay? I'm only thinking."
He feigned cooking a little while longer, before he pressed again with less intensity, "I thought that Ike would come looking for you, but I haven't seen him since Monday. He and Kenny usually partner together, but he didn't come with Kenny yesterday. And even if they didn't gang up, I still think Ike would've shown up on my doorstep by now."

Kyle shrugged.

"Don't you think Ike should have already done something? Something to take you home or to get you away from me?" Stan stressed.

"I don't know, dude," Kyle didn't make eye contact, "Maybe he's still celebrating."

"Can't argue with you there. He's pretty self-centered," he paused and tried to collect himself, "But am I wrong to think that we should be worried he hasn't shown?"

"I thought you didn't like him," Kyle remarked, crossing his arms.

"I don't."

"Then why are you so upset he hasn't come by?"

"I'm not upset, I'm just-" Stan turned away so Kyle wouldn't have to see him try to hold himself together, "I just have a really bad feeling about him. You know I don't trust him. And you can't get mad at me for that, 'cause he doesn't trust me either. Or Kenny."

Kyle's ears picked up on that last line, "Kenny?"

"Yeah," Stan slumped, "Kenny doesn't trust me anymore."

"Do you think you're just saying that because you're sad? You can't really mean it. I'm sure Kenny doesn't actually-"

"-No. He told me. Back at Bebe's party, before you showed up. He flat-out told me he doesn't trust me. After all that avoiding he's been doing, like it was all my fault."

Kyle gave him a sad look, which only made him feel worse. Stan watched Kyle rise from his seat, and limp over to Stan's side. He took Stan's hand and gave it a squeeze for comfort.

"It's okay, Stan," Kyle said, "These are some pretty shitty days. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: all of this will pass."

Stan squeezed his hand back, "When have you said that before? I can't really remember."

"When you were acting weird a week or so ago," Kyle explained, "When you first took me out of my house and drove me to Tegridy Farms. I knew you were just going through a thing, and your mental health would restore eventually, and I was right. You're already showing improvement."

As much as Stan knew that Kyle was trying to praise him, something about his words felt insulting, not encouraging.

He pulled his hand away from Kyle's and looked him in the eye, "I wasn't 'acting weird' back then."

Kyle smirked playfully, "I mean, yeah, you sort of were, dude."

"No, Kyle. You were the one who was sick in the head, don't you remember? I helped you get out of there. I was doing the right thing."

Kyle's smirk faltered. In that one second, he went from being playful to being unsure. He swallowed a little before saying, "Yeah, but you were sort of acting weird. Only a little. But you're right, though. You were doing what you thought was right at the time."

Stan's couldn't help but notice how Kyle referred to 'what he thought was right.'

Kyle went on, "But to give credit where it's due, you were definitely a lot better that night then you were other times. So, yeah, I'll give you points for that one."

Stan had to push aside the breakfast plates so that he could rest his fists on the counter. Giving Kyle a pointed look, he challenged, "Okay, I'm sorry, but what the hell are you talking about?"

Kyle went still.

"Well?"

"Stan!" Kyle laughed nervously. He wore a smile, but his eyes were still brewing with panic, "Don't get upset, it's fine. I'm not mad at you. You apologized, remember? And I forgave you. I was only making a statement. I- Sorry if I brought it up too soon, or whatever, I-"

"-Stop saying sorry. Geez," Stan squeezed his eyes shut, "Yes, I apologized for the zip-ties. I was acting weird and I scared you that night. I'm sorry."

"And I already forgave you, dude. You're in the clear."

"Yup," Stan said, though he wasn't entirely satisfied, "Just one little slip-up. It's behind us now."

Kyle pulled away, "Well, I wouldn't say 'one.' And I definitely wouldn't say 'little.'"

"What are you talking about, Kyle? Are you feeling alright?"

"Dude," Kyle couldn't even nervous-laugh anymore; he was drawing into himself, "Don't tell me you don't remember."

"Remember what?"

"Look, I know you apologized for everything. And I forgave you. I did. For everything. But just pretending none of it ever happened is not going to help you get any better."

"Kyle, you're starting to sound as delusional as you did back in Laramie," Stan said, his breath hitching, "What 'it' are you talking about? I only slipped up once, and that was with the zip-ties. And you admitted yourself, that it was your fault you got hurt because of them, not mine."

Kyle absentmindedly raised a hand to the bruise at the base of his skull, "Are you sure, Stan?"

"What?"

"Are you sure?" Kyle puled, his voice hoarse, "You can't think of any other times?"

Stan felt his heart break when he heard the despondency in Kyle's voice. The despair in his tone, combined with the forlornness in his jade-green eyes, was enough to move mountains. Just Kyle's unadulterated defenselessness made remorse gnaw away at Stan's insides.

"Kyle," he hushed softly, "I think your confusion might be coming back."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Kyle?"

The redhead wiped at his eyes, and then promptly turned away. He cleared his throat and said, "So, Stan, I was thinking maybe you should try working out again today."

Stan had to take a step back.

There were two remarkable things that just happened within the same fraction of a second, and they both caught Stan completely by surprise.

Firstly, Kyle changed the subject so suddenly and so directly that it made Stan's head spin. He felt like he got whiplash. Whether it was a just a random change in subject or a byproduct of his confusion, Stan felt like he had been slapped awake just by the quick shift of it all.

Secondly, Kyle had a change in character. But in a good way.
Mere seconds earlier, he was folding in on himself, acting timid and nervous. But just in that quick shift, he demonstrated a spurt of his old self, his direct, fiery, no-nonsense self. And Stan couldn't help but gush at the fact that at least Kyle was starting to act like himself again, even if he only did so in bits and pieces at a time.

"Woah," Stan laughed in surprise. He turned back to preparing the breakfasts, "Okay, Kyle. Sounds good. But how come? You don't think I'm going soft, do you?"

"Dude, no way. Your physique is fine. It's fucking pristine, actually," Kyle crossed his arms, "I was just-... It occurred to me that yesterday, you were doing a lot better at controlling yourself after you worked out. If it's something that helps you release stress, you should do it."

"I'm not stressed," Stan smiled.

"No," Kyle agreed reluctantly, "But you were acting-... I don't know. You just-"

"-I wasn't acting weird. We were only talking. You were acting weird."

"Right," Kyle furrowed his brow, "I'm the one acting weird."

Stan went on preparing the breakfasts for a moment longer, before innocently offering, "But I wouldn't mind working out anyway. I really like doing it. And if you're feeling well enough, you can join me."

"Whatever you want, dude," Kyle said, his tone unreadable.

Stan slid a plate across the counter to him, "I made avocado toast. I know it's a thing for millennials, but it's still really good. And good for you. Healthy fats and carbs all in one place."

"'kay," Kyle mumbled, sitting down with his plate. Stan joined him across the table with his own plate. Through a mouthful of his own breakfast, Stan commented, "You seem tense."

"Sorry," was all Kyle said in response.

"Are you tense because Kenny's coming over?"

"Let's just say that's the reason why, yeah."

That answer didn't satisfy Stan in the slightest. He couldn't help but wonder where that flash of Kyle's old self went. It was like his personality left just as quickly as it showed up.

Stan frowned. Being the hungry athlete that he was, he was already finished with his own slice of avocado toast, so he went to the fridge to make himself an omelet. As he prepared the ingredients, he attempted to make yet another light proposal, "You know, I normally do cardio on Sundays, but I don't want to have to leave you for a few hours just so I can go on a run. I was thinking maybe I could do some easy pilates today. You know, stretches, things like that. And maybe you can do them with me, it might be really good for your injuries."

"You mean that?"

"Sure, why not? I hate cardio anyway," Stan shrugged.

Kyle's elation was evident. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't need to smile to show just how ecstatic he was. The spark in his eyes did all the smiling for him. Kyle gave Stan a brief thumbs up before starting to eat his breakfast.

Turning his back away from Kyle to cook the omelet, Stan took a moment to collect his thoughts.

His brain clouding uncomfortably, Stan couldn't help but notice how fluctuated Kyle's emotions were. Just within the past few minutes, his personality was an oscillating ebb and flow. His state of being wavered so rapidly that Stan had barely been able to keep up.

This alone was concerning as it already is.

But the more Stan thought about it, he realized with intense consternation that he was the reason why Kyle's feelings fluctuated so much. Every dip in conversation, every ounce of hesitation that Kyle produced, he did that in response to whatever Stan was doing. When Stan was frustrated, Kyle was analeptic, when Stan was happy, Kyle was on cloud nine.

That wasn't all. Stan realized with unadulterated intensity that none of the feelings Kyle displayed in the last few minutes were foul play.
(Stan would know; he was always able to tell when Kyle faked emotions. He might not always address it, but he always knew it. Other people Stan couldn't read very well, but with Kyle, Stan always knew.)
Every single phase in Kyle's emotional potpourri was genuine. His dismay, his hesitance, his happiness, his stubbornness, and everything in between was all real.

Something about that was just terrifying. That meant that Stan could do whatever he wanted, and Kyle would have an immediate bodily reaction to it-whether it was warranted or sensible or not. It was like Kyle was a ball of putty in Stan's hands, and he could be molded in whatever way Stan saw suitable.

Kyle must not have even realized he was doing it.

This had to mean Kyle's confusion was returning, right? But if that were the case, it would have to mean that Kyle didn't fully recover from his diabetic ketoacidosis; that would mean Stan took him off the tubes too soon.

Or, even worse. Kyle could have been acting this way for even longer than Stan realized, keeping his emotions in tune with Stan's long before he was able to recognize it.

For perhaps the millionth time, Stan hated both of his theories.

"Stan?"

"Yeah, Kyle?"

"Your omelet's on fire."

Not too long after the words left Kyle's mouth, the smoke detector overhead started to release its ear-piercing beeps, and Stan finally realized that his omelet was, in fact, burning to a crisp. He threw the pan in the sink and bolted to open the kitchen window, releasing the smoke.

Using a rag, he ushered the smoke out of the window, coughing only a few times. Once the smoke detectors finally stopped beeping, Stan was able to breath again. It was a minor fire, and no damage was done, but the stench of smoke still reeked in the kitchen.

"Shit," Stan grumbled, clenching his fists, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, I have my breakfast right here," Kyle said, "You okay, Stan?"

The quarterback clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, anxiousness writhing up inside of him. He couldn't bring himself to join Kyle at the table, he was too antsy to sit down. His mouth was dry when he said, "I just got distracted, I guess."

"By what?"

"I dunno. My thoughts?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"I wouldn't mind talking about it-" Kyle's eyes were wallowing in worry, and Stan loathed it, "-if you think it would help, Stan."

"It wouldn't," Stan clenched his fists again. He crossed over to the table, where up close he could see that Kyle had barely eaten a thing.

Stan felt his heart hammer in his chest when he ordered, "Kyle, finish your breakfast."

"I'm not done yet. I'm just-"

"-I'm not letting you get sick again. Finish your goddamn breakfast."

Kyle flinched.

Balling his fists up, Stan went to the kitchen to collect his phone, and then proceeded to the front door to slip on his athletic shoes.

"Stan?" Kyle limped in from the table, his voice thick with dread, "What're you doing?"

"I'm gonna go for a run," Stan said, tying the laces on his shoes, "But I need you to do some things for me, okay?"

"Okay," Kyle bit his lip, "What do you want?"

"Number one," Stan shuddered, anxiety gripping his throat as he commanded, "You lock the door behind me when I leave. Got that? Make sure it's locked the second I walk out the door. Number two, close and lock the kitchen window. Number three, finish your goddamn breakfast. All of it. Take pricks if you need to, but no medicine. Number four, don't open the door for anyone. Not even Kenny. If it's Kenny, he can wait on the driveway 'till I come back. No opening the door at all. Number five, if you need me for anything, you use the home phone to call my cell phone. I'll have it with me when I run, okay? The home phone is in the kitchen. You know my number, right?"

"Of course I know your number," Kyle whispered in a voice so mouselike it made him look even smaller than he already was. He actually looked so small and frail that a gust of wind could have blown him away.

For some reason, it looked like Kyle wanted to cry.

Stan wanted to cry, too. But he didn't. He just laced up his shoes and walked outside. As soon as he heard the click of the door locking behind him, he ran off, his shoes pounding the pavement to the beat of his heart.

Stan didn't stop running until about two hours later, when even in the height of the winter, he could feel sweat dripping down his back. It probably wasn't safe for the average person to run for so long and so fast in such cold weather, but Stan's body worked like a tank. It didn't stop for anything.

Stan did have to stop, though, when he felt he had left Kyle alone for far too long. He hadn't gotten any calls from him, which was good. But still there was that daunting separation anxiety that preyed on the back of Stan's mind, and he couldn't outrun it.

When he jogged up his driveway, he came to an immediate halt.

His heart was already ramming into his ribcage because of the run, but now it was pounding double-time. His anxiety was spiking, his palms going clammy. Overwhelmingly, fear started to unman him.

Stan didn't even know why. He hadn't even opened the front door, but he was already freaking out in preparation of something he didn't know.

He knocked at the door, calling, "Kyle? I'm home!"

When Stan waited a little too long for someone to open the door, he pulled at the doorknob. It was locked, but with a few more tugs, Stan was able to break the lock with his hands and dash inside.

Panic surging through him, Stan made a beeline for the kitchen, hoping to find Kyle simply sitting down at the table, an empty plate in his hands.

Instead, Stan ran in to discover an empty room still reeking of smoke.

"Kyle?!" he shrieked, dazed as he spun around in the room.

"In here…"

Stan felt something drop in his gut when he heard Kyle murmuring from the bathroom. His head heavy on his shoulders, he trotted down the hall to the bathroom, where he found Kyle curled up on the floor by the toilet.

"Oh Kyle," Stan sighed, "Did you throw up again?"

"No," Kyle wrapped his arms around his midsection, "Just felt like I was going to."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"'cause I only felt like I was going to, I didn't actually."

Still panting heavily and dripping with sweat, Stan dropped down to the floor beside him, sighing and running his hands through his hair. But before he could get a word out, Kyle spoke first.

"I'm sorry I'm such a problem-child," Kyle whispered, resting his chin on his knees as he hugged himself, "I never used to be like this. I was always so independent."

"Kyle, please, for the love of God, stop apologizing," Stan said, his voice hoarse and dry, "It breaks my heart every time you do."

Kyle hugged himself tighter.

"Why'd you think you were going to throw up? You don't think you're getting sick, do you?"

"I don't know," Kyle said. But from the tone in his voice, it sounded like he really did know, "On Friday when I was at home, I told Ike how I've been puking a lot. He predicted it means I either still have DKA or I developed some kind of jacked-up defense mechanism for, like, when I get scared or stressed or something."

"Damn," Stan frowned, "That's awful. Both options."

"Yeah."

"..."

"..."

"What is it with us and bathrooms?" Stan asked half-heartedly, "We're, like, we're always in the bathroom together when something bad happens."

Kyle gave a sad laugh, "You know, I never realized that until you pointed it out. That's true. It's kind of funny."

"And sad. Bathrooms are gross."

"They're disgusting," Kyle looked around, "This one is kind of clean though."

"Thanks. I cleaned it while you were sleeping yesterday. I did my best."

Kyle bit his lower lip, "You do a lot for me, don't you?"

"Sure," Stan shrugged, "It's no big deal though. I love you."

"I wish I could do something for you."

"Kyle, just your presence is enough, really," Stan pleaded, his heart melting, "And your health. And your personality."

Kyle snorted, "Those last two things don't even exist at this point."

"...Kyle."

"What?"

"Don't say that. That's sad."

"It's true."

"It's sad. Stop it."

Kyle stopped hugging his knees, untangling himself until he was loose as they sat on the bathroom floor, "You know what I just remembered?"

"What?"

"In the farmhouse bathroom, I told you I would let you look at my back again," Kyle stood up from the ground, "I never got the chance to do that for you."

"Kyle, it's okay, you don't have to-"

"-No, I should. You deserve it," Kyle said, unzipping Butters' coat and dropping it on the floor, "Help me undress? My back's still sore. I can't move that well."

Stan swallowed, uneasiness clogging the back of his throat. Nonetheless, he stood up and placed himself where he had last time, directly behind Kyle with his hands at the hem of his shirt.

Just as he started tugging the fabric upwards, a memory flashed through his head:
The night Stan had taken Kyle away for the first time, he remembered Kyle drawing his arms around himself uncomfortably. As he had watched him shy into himself, an ugly thought had risen in the back of Stan's mind.
'Hey, Kyle,' Stan had whispered, 'Who's been dressing you since the accident?'
Kyle had gone pale, 'Don't worry about it.'
'No, Kyle, really. I think I need to know...Was it your brother or your dad?'

Someone out there had images.

Exploited.

Susceptible.

Underage.

Naked.

"Stan, you okay? Is it that bad?"

Stan didn't realize he had already pulled off the shirt until Kyle spoke. But instead of launching into a feverish passion looking after the tender area, Stan turned around. He actually brought his hands to cover his face, turning around so he wouldn't have to face Kyle's back, his gut churning and seething with disgust.

"God, I'm sorry…" Stan muttered, his face pressing into his palms, "I just- I can't. I can't look at you right now…"

"...Stan, it's okay. Do you want to-...? Let's just go do something else for a bit," Kyle forced a smile, "Hey, how about you and I go-"

"-Jesus Christ, Kyle!" Kenny McCormick stood at the doorway to the bathroom, his jaw hanging open and his arms loose at his sides. Fear pierced his bright blue eyes as he stared in horror at Kyle's back.
"Dude," Kenny's voice was shaky as his knees wobbled, "What the fuck did Stan do to you?!"

Kyle covered his mouth, "Oh, God. No, Kenny, no. Stan didn't- No. He didn't do this at all. No, he's fine. I'm fine. We're all okay. Stan didn't do anything."

"How did you even get in here?" Stan asked, taking his hands away from his face.

"The front door was wide open, so I thought there was an emergency-" Kenny visibly swallowed, still staring at Kyle's back, "-And I was right. Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ."

Kyle struggled to put his shirt back on. It looked like it was paining him, but he fought back anyway, all the while saying, "No, Kenny. No, no you don't understand-"

"-See, Kyle I knew something was wrong when you said you'd cut your wrists yourself. I knew it had to do something with Stan. And now there's this…" Kenny offered his hand, "Kylie-B, come home with me, okay? I don't want you staying with Stan anymore. There's plenty of room at the Scotch place. I'll take good care of you."

Kyle drew away, "Kenny, everything is fine. Stan didn't-"

"-Stop covering for him," Kenny cried, his eyes starting to water, "You're never gonna get any better if you stick around so he can just hurt you again, and he's never gonna get any better if he has you in close range to strangle whenever he feels like it!"

"Kenny!" Kyle was mortified, "Don't say that!"

"I mean it, Kylie-B! Come home with me! Please," Kenny pleaded.

When Kyle still refused to take his hand, Kenny reached over and grabbed him by the elbow. With a gentle tug he started ushering him out of the bathroom, while Kyle tried to pull his arm back.

Adrenaline crashing through him, Stan shot forward and shoved his arm away. Kenny backed away before Stan could punch him just in the nick of time.

"Hey! Kyle doesn't like being grabbed!" Stan yelled, his hands balled into fists.

Kenny reared up by raising his own fists in preparation, "Oh and all of a sudden, you actually care about what Kyle doesn't like, now? When the fuck did this happen?"

"Stan, don't hit Kenny," Kyle pleaded, his voice numb with shock.

"I'm going to if he grabs you again!" Stan thundered back, "Or if he tries to take you away! You're not leaving!"

"You can't just decide that!" Kenny shrieked, "Kyle has his own goddamn life! And I don't want 'im to just throw in the towel and take this kind of abusive crap from you, just to make you happy! Don't you see how wrong that is?!"

Without grabbing him, Kenny tried once again to offer his hand out to Kyle. This time, the tears in his eyes were dangerously close to falling when he begged, "Kylie-B, please. I don't want you two together anymore. I won't let him hurt you ever again if you come with me. Will you please come home with me?"

Kyle looked to Stan for an answer.

"Don't look at him, Kylie, look at me," Kenny's voice was laced in panic, "He can't decide for you. Only you can decide for yourself."

Stan's gut was boiling, "Kyle?"

"Kenny, I can't."

Stan smiled.

Kenny just let out a muffled cry of anguish.

"Kenny, it's fine," Kyle struggled to put his shirt back on as he spoke, "Everything's fine. Stan's doing great. And I'm okay, and you don't need to worry."

"Kylie-B," Kenny was still paralyzed in shock, "I- Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. I'm okay, and I don't need to leave Stan anytime soon," when he finished putting his shirt back on, Kyle handed Butters' blue coat over, "Here. I never got the chance to give this back."

Kenny's bewilderment was excruciating to view from the outside. It was like his entire body was both in a state of fight and flight at the same time. He was like a deer in the headlights, but the deer was holding himself back from charging the headlights dead-on.

His blue eyes darted from Kyle to Stan and back again as he said, "Please come to school tomorrow."

"We haven't had that conversation yet," Stan cut in.

"Please come to school tomorrow," Kenny pleaded, his eyes still darting madly, "I- I have no control over what happens here. At least at school I can look out for you, Kylie-B."

Kyle gave Stan a desperate look.

Stan clenched and unclenched his fists.

"Stan."

"Stan, please?"

"Fine," he squeezed his eyes shut, "We'll be at school tomorrow. Now get the fuck out of here, Kenny."

The blonde barely seemed satisfied by Stan's agreement. He was still shaky on his knees, nervously looking between them when he said; "Okay. And I swear if y'all don't show up, I'm gonna, like, call the police. Or the national guard. Or whoever I can, okay? I'm not gonna- I can't just-"

"-It's okay, Ken," Kyle assured, "We'll be there."

"You can leave now," Stan said defensively.

Kenny sniffed and wiped his nose, "Kylie-B, can I give you a hug, first?"

"Oh God, Kenny," Kyle soft-pedaled, his voice as smooth as honey, "Of course you can, dude. Yes, of course."

Kenny wrapped Kyle up in his arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck as they stood in each other's embrace. Stan couldn't help but notice how intently Kenny was gripping him, like he was afraid of letting go.

"I'm not gonna force you to come home with me," Kenny whispered against Kyle's hair, "'cause I'm not gonna force you to do anything. I think it's your choice. Just please reconsider. If anything bad happens again, please think of me first."

"Okay Kenny, but nothing bad's going to happen. Stan's doing great."

Kenny pulled away from the hug, wiping his nose, "Yeah, that's what you keep saying. Just- Just keep your wits about you, Kyle. I think you need them."

He shot Stan a nasty look before he reluctantly left the bathroom, Butters' coat balled up in his hand.

Only when Stan heard the front door closing did he finally relax. He took a deep breath and stretched his arms over his head, "Geez, Kenny really knows how to create tension, doesn't he?"

Kyle was nowhere near as relieved as Stan was. He was still stiff in his spine, biting his lip as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.

"Kyle? What's wrong?"

Kyle tore his gaze from his reflection before he said, "Stan, I know you're just trying to look out for me, but please never hit Kenny."

"Kyle," Stan breathed, "He was grabbing you. I didn't even hit him, but I should've. He was grabbing you. You told me you don't like being touched like that anymore."

"It doesn't matter. I mean, after the North Park kid-..." Kyle shook his head, "Don't ever hit Kenny. Even if you find yourself getting really, really mad at him. Even if you think he deserves it, he doesn't. Okay?"

Stan felt like he was surrendering his soul when he complied, "Okay."

"..."

"..."

"So how was your run?"

"It was fine."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"..."

"Do you want to try to eat something?"

"Not really."

"..."

"..."

Stan rubbed the back of his neck, "Do you really want to go to school tomorrow?"

There was a kindle of life in Kyle's jade-green eyes. It flickered only for a second before he nodded and declared, "More than anything."