Thank you so much for reading! We are in the last stretch of this story, only a few more chapters to go! If you're still reading at this point, you are an angel among men. Thank you exponentially!

Warnings for this chapter: Mild underage drinking

Kyle was talking to himself for what was perhaps the eighth time that night.

Stan wasn't sure if Kyle was even aware he was doing it. He was asleep-at least, he seemed to be.

The past few days have proved that Kyle's sleep schedule was just as obstructed and disordered as everything else in his life. There were some times he didn't sleep for days, and other times he slept for twenty hours straight. It was difficult for Stan to attend to him when he could hardly keep track of his energy levels. Stan wasn't angry with Kyle for it, of course, because he knew it wasn't his fault.

But Stan was still angry. With each passing day, his resentment towards Kyle's younger brother grew. He never should have given Kyle those pills; his sleep habits were rampant now, and they weren't improving. Kyle must have grown dependent on them or something, because he was showing worrisome symptoms of withdrawal.

Right now, Stan and Kyle were pressed up together on Stan's mattress, and Kyle was muttering in his sleep.

At least, Stan was pretty sure he was sleeping. To be honest, it was hard to tell.

They were both awake just a few moments ago, watching a basketball game from Stan's phone, when Stan finally noticed that Kyle wasn't commenting on the game anymore. When he looked over to check on him, he found that Kyle had seemingly dozed off, lying back against his pillow. His eyes were closed and his breathing was gentle and even, so Stan had to assume that he had fallen asleep.

The only thing that made Stan question if he was really sleeping or not was the fact that Kyle was talking to himself.

He was only muttering, really. He mumbled incoherently, most of his words malformed and breathy as he pressed his face into the pillow. But just these little actions were enough to kindle suspicion.

To be fair, Stan knew that sleep-talking was a natural thing and a lot of people did it. But he had known Kyle his entire life, and he couldn't recall a single time in their childhood when Kyle talked in his sleep.

That's the reason why Stan decided to stick around while Kyle slept. Normally, he would allow him some privacy and go into another room, but something about his mumbling made Stan feel like he should be here at his side. He didn't know what he was afraid of, maybe the idea of Kyle having a night tremor or something, but for whatever reason it may be, Stan decided to remain by Kyle's side as he slept.

He tried a few times to understand what Kyle was saying, but could never really grasp more than three words at a time. So after a few hours, Stan just stopped trying to pay attention. He just went on leaning up against him on the bed, gently drifting off into sleep himself.

Stan nearly dozed off, until a sharp tug against the mattress woke him up. Kyle sat straight up on the bed, his back stiff as a board.

Stan popped his eyes open, "Hey, Kyle. Did you just wake up?"

Kyle didn't respond at first, apparently still in a state of lethargy after just waking. So Stan sat up on the bed with him, stifling a yawn.

"You must've been having some crazy dreams," Stan whispered.

"What?" Kyle rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"You were sorta talking in your sleep," Stan explained, stretching a little, "I don't remember you ever doing that before. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"

"No," Kyle mumbled hoarsely, "Jus' realized something."

"You 'realized something?' While you were sleeping or just now?"

"What?"

"What'd you realize? Something serious?"

"No. Jus' something interesting," Kyle rubbed his eyes again, "I realized that we're sorta paradoxes of each other, dude. Like, you have a great body but a fucked up head, 'n I have an okay head but a fucked up body."

"...Kyle."

Kyle lied back down pulling the covers over his head.

"Kyle, we're both going to get better. You know that. We're working so hard. We're bound to get better," Stan said as encouragingly as he could.
He pulled back the cover from Kyle's face to discover that he had fallen asleep again. This time, it was a deep sleep. He wasn't tossing, turning, or murmuring at all. He slept with his mouth open, his breathing soft and rhythmical.

Stan didn't know if it was impressive or disturbing that Kyle fell asleep so quickly after that bizarre statement. Either way, he didn't feel any more comfortable letting him rest on his own. So Stan tucked in tighter, pulling the covers over both of them.

It was hard to say how much time passed before Stan's resting was interrupted yet again.

He heard his phone vibrate from the nightstand, the screen casting a blue glow throughout the room. He ignored it at first, but when it buzzed a second time, he accepted he had better check it; Stan already missed out on way too many messages anyway.

He made sure Kyle was still sleeping before rolling out of bed. He moved to the hallway outside his bedroom to see that he had received texts from Butters, of all the people in the world.

Butters never texted him. They never really spent time together after their middle school years. The only regular interaction they had was at football games, where Butters was the team's water-boy.

Stan pulled a face. This was surprising. He would have thought Kenny or Ike messaged him. Or take it a step further, Stan had actually anticipated that Kenny or Ike would blast his phone with texts and calls twenty four hours on the clock. But there was no word from either of them.

Stan could have slapped himself when he remembered that he still had their numbers blocked.

It might have been a good thing, though. He would much rather talk with Butters than have to deal with their pressures and accusations.

He opened up the texts from Butters:
Hiya Stan! Long time no see, right?

Just wanted to let you know that Kenny is on his way over to your house. He told me to let you know so it doesn't come as a surprise & you don't "get upset." his words, not mine.

By the way am I still water-boy for thursday's game?

Stan sucked in a deep breath after reading Butters' texts.

He hated to admit it, but Kenny made a really good call to send word ahead. Thanks to the forewarning, Stan could collect his thoughts and get a few things out of his system before Kenny visited.

Unless it wasn't a visit. It could very well be an intervention, or even something else. Stan had no idea what to expect.

Nonetheless he couldn't deny the fact that Kenny was on his way over right at this moment. This wasn't something he could just brush aside. So with fidgeting fingers, he texted back an "ok," before bounding down the stairs to the first floor.

He found himself in a sort of pitifully funny situation. Stan was debating if he should bring out some weed or drinks, as if they were having a simple get-together. They might be for all he knows. But something told him that Kenny wasn't just here to socialize.

When Stan got downstairs, he went to the closet and assembled his plastic basketball hoop over the closet door. Scoring a few hoops might help him focus in a way that was easily more natural than boxing or going on a two-hour run.

He played by himself for a while until he heard the doorbell ring.

He set the little rubber basketball to the side and went to answer the front door. But before he could turn the knob, he cast a look upstairs toward his bedroom, where Kyle was still sleeping soundly.

The thought occurred that maybe Kyle would benefit from seeing Kenny.
But Stan dismissed the thought as soon as it arose; Kyle needed his sleep more than anything.

So taking a deep breath, Stan pulled open the front door. Kenny McCormick was standing there, the light of the dusky sky enhancing the orange of his parka and the golden wisps of his blonde hair. He stood poised, but at the same time maintained that disheveled carry that was integral to his character. It was difficult to read his expression; Kenny was not entirely cold-fish, but he wasn't his natural rambunctious self either. He seemed to be somewhere in the middle: he was open, but he was also guarded.

Stan opened his mouth to greet him, but Kenny beat him to speaking first.

"Please don't hit me."

"I'm not gonna hit you."

Kenny let out a sigh of relief. He opened his mouth to say something else, but this time, it was Stan who beat him to it.

"Before you start accusing me of something," Stan began, "Kyle's here. He's just sleeping. He's fine, I haven't laid a finger on him. He's upstairs in my bedroom, tucked in, safe and sound. And if you don't believe me, you can run up to my room and see."

"Dude, I was just gonna say that the lock on your doorknob is broken."

"Oh."

Kenny peeked over his shoulders to the interior of the house, "Is it cool if I come in?"

Stan winced, "Is this an intervention?"

"Nah, man, I just wanted to stop by and check in," Kenny said. There was an unmasked sincerity to his tone that Stan couldn't deny even if he tried. He had to accept that Kenny was not here as a threat.

That was a major load off his chest.

"Sure, come on in," Stan stepped aside, holding the door open as Kenny walked in.

He pulled back the hood of his parka and plopped down on the sofa of the living room, as if they were still best friends and this was just a regular Friday night. To him, maybe it was. His conventional attitude helped put Stan at ease.

So Stan went to the refrigerator, calling over his shoulder, "Can I get you a drink?"

"I thought your dad was all strict about no alcohol, or whatever."

Stan felt a flash of guilt, "Oh. Um. About that."

Kenny raised his head from the couch.

"My dad's not sober anymore."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Dude, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. People relapse. It's normal," Stan said, burying his guilt under meaningless words. He pulled a few beers out of the fridge and took them back to the living room, passing one off to Kenny, "So, isn't it a little late for you to come over?"

"Not really, dude," Kenny opened his bottle and started to fiddle with the cap, "It's like eight at night."

"Is it? I've lost complete track of time. We're not on normal schedules here," Stan said. It didn't occur until after the words left his mouth that he was probably sounding like a terrible caretaker.

But Kenny's soft eyes were non-judgemental, "It's fine, dude. I get it. As long as you're both doing okay," he took a sip from his beer before saying, "Besides, as soon as miss mayor finally mandates quarantine 'cause of the virus, we're all going to lose track o' time anyway."

"Dude, you know she's not going to do anything. Even if she did, the people here won't cooperate. Social distancing is not going to stand in this town."

"Damn. When you're right, you're right."

Stan took a sip from his own beer, relishing at the way it bit at the back of his throat. It had been way too long since he had one of these.

He cleared his throat a little before admitting, "Say, now that I think about it, I don't even know what day it is."

"It's Wednesday. I wanted to come by Monday and Tuesday night but my stupid foster parents raked me into fuckin' community service and I couldn't get out of it," Kenny ruffled his moppy blonde hair, "And believe me, I tried. But you know how they are about public appearances and shit. I couldn't get out of it until tonight."

"It's okay, we're holding up," Stan said.

For a second, he wondered if he should tell him what Kyle said a few minutes ago in his room. The strange statement he made about being a paradox was something so bizarre, random, and unsettling that just the thought of it made goosebumps jump up on Stan's arms.

But he thought better of it. He figured that the things Kyle said could have been the result of a fevered dream or something like that. And even if he was sincere about what he said, it wouldn't be right for Stan to just pass it along to Kenny without Kyle's permission. It could have been a secret for all he knew.

Kenny cleared his throat, "So, like… I wanted to apologize."

Stan blinked.

"For, uh, for not being fair," he was playing with his bottle cap as he spoke, turning it over between his long fingers, "What the Kylie-B said in the libary was right. I was, like- Geez, I'm not good at this… I was calling you out and accusing you of things when I probably shouldn't've been."

Stan didn't point out that Kenny said "libary" instead of "library." It was a childish habit of his that Stan dismissed years ago.

But to be honest, Stan didn't even notice it. He was primarily affected by the friendly candor in Kenny's apology. Stan didn't know what he was expecting when Kenny showed up at his front door, but he certainly hadn't expected this kind of genuine vulnerability.

And Kenny wasn't even done. He still had more to say.

"And, uh, I'm sorry I thought you did that shit to his back," Kenny twisted the bottle cap more, "I shoulda realized that you didn't. It was too bad for one human being to do to another. And I'm sorry about Sunday; when you said you were 'punching things,' I automatically assumed you meant you were punching Kyle. I shoulda been more respectful."

Stan didn't realize he had tears in his eyes until he felt one roll down his face, "Kenny."

"Shoot!" Kenny laughed nervously, "Didn't mean to start your waterworks. You okay?"

Stan wiped at his face, laughing at his own guilelessness, "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine! Not your fault! You're fine, Kenny."

"Oh, thank the Lord. I don't need to be breaking any more hearts."

There was an extended beat of silence before Kenny pressed forward, "So, like… Not to sound like an ass or anything, but it's your turn to apologize."

"Okay, um," Stan took a sip from his beer, "Sorry things got weird between us."

Kenny raised an eyebrow, as if that wasn't the apology he had been expecting. Then he sighed and confessed, "Honestly, I'm sorry about that, too. We both want the same thing. We shouldn't be petty about it."

"I can't even remember why I was mad at you."

"I remember every reason why I'm mad at you," Kenny sighed, ruffling his hair, "And to be honest, man, there are some things you've done I'll probably never forget. Maybe even never forgive. But I hafta remember that you're suffering here, too. Not just the Kylie-B. You're going through just as much in the head, you know? I gotta be understanding with you."

Stan frowned, "But I'm not suffering. I'm improving."

Kenny wiped at his nose, "No, I know. I know. You are. There's just so much going on, it's hard to keep track of everything that's happened. What I'm saying is I shouldn't try to hold onto it all. There's no reason to be petty."

"It's like, just when we think everything's settled down, something blows everything out of proportion again."

"You said it, bro. I really meant it that one time I said I should be keeping a diary of all this," he took another swig of his drink, "I think Ike has a diary."

"Hm," Stan mocked, "Maybe we should read it 'n find out his evil schemes."

Kenny set his drink aside and the bottle cap with it. He balled his hands into fists when he said, "So you think he's onto something, too."

"Kyle and I both think it," Stan said, "Kyle says he's planning something."

"He's gotta be. Prolly something big. When he was at my place the other day, he was acting really weird. Kinda freaked me out. I feel like he knows something that we don't know."

Stan made a disgusted sound.

"I know, right?" Kenny pursed his lips, "He gives me the heebie-jeebies. I thought we were on the same side. Don't get me wrong, I still think that he's a good guy, I really do, but I still feel like he's onto something."

Before Stan could put in his two cents, he heard a clang from the kitchen. In an instant, he shot straight up from the couch, calling, "Kyle? Is that you?"

Kyle was standing cautiously by the pantry, using one hand to rub his eyes sleepily. At Stan's call, he gave a slight wave, "Hi… Yeah, it's me."

Kenny sprung up from the couch, "Kylie-B!"

"Oh, hi, Kenny. It's so good to see you, dude. I didn't know you were here-" Kyle's excitement was cut short by a tremendous yawn, one that racked his entire feeble body. He actually had to hold onto the door frame to keep himself upright as he yawned.

Stan watched Kenny go from energetic to depleted in less than a second.

"Didja just wake up from a nap, sleepyhead?" the blonde asked, feigning cheerfulness.

"Yeah. I got hungry."

"Oh," Stan's heartbeat quickened, "I'm sorry, Kyle. You should have called for me. I would have brought you something," he was already moving towards the kitchen, "Let's get you something to eat. Anything you want. What would you like?"

"Broth."

Stan felt his gut churn, "Kyle, you don't want just broth. It won't even make you feel less hungry. I've said, like, ten times already you need something more nutrient-dense."

"No, thanks."

"Kyle."

"I don' wanna puke."

"Kyle, you won't-"

"-I don't want to puke!" Kyle barked with intensity. As soon as the words left his mouth, he placed a hand to his forehead and sighed, "Sorry, I just-... I don't know. I'm tired. That's no excuse, but-"

"-No, Kyle, it's a fine excuse," Stan said, but he didn't really mean it. He knew he was lying, both to himself and Kyle, but he felt like it was needed, "You can take some broth upstairs, okay? Back in my room. You can drink it up there and then go right back to sleep. Sound good?"

Kyle gave a nonverbal gesture of agreement, then dug through the pantry until he found a box of straight vegetable broth. Unscrewing its lid, Kyle offered Kenny a sad little wave before saying, "Sorry, Ken, 'm usually better at being polite to guests, but I just-"

"-No, it's okay," Kenny forced a smile, "You can get some rest if you're tired, I don't mind one bit. Besides, I came here to make amends with Stan, anyway."

Kyle went still at that, his eyes twinkling with a kind of delighted wonder, "Really?"

"Really really. We're all good now, right?" Kenny threw an arm around the quarterback's shoulders.

Stan gave his back a firm pat, "Right. We made up, we're all good."

Kyle smiled weakly. It really looked like he was genuinely trying to make an effort, but the skin of his cheeks stretched too much, and the bulge behind his eyes was too cogent for his smile to be pleasant. It was like he was a phantom.

"That's awesome, guys," he said hoarsely, "I'm glad to hear it."

"Of course, dude. We're good friends. We were bound to kiss 'n make up eventually."

"Good. That's good," he yawned again, "I'm gonna have this and go to bed."

"That's okay, Kyle. It's late," Stan lied again.

"Yeah, it's okay, sweet thing. You go get your beauty sleep. You deserve it," Kenny's smile was now so fake that he looked like the Cheshire Cat.

"'kay. G'night."

"Good night."

"Sleep tight, Sleeping Beauty."

Kyle didn't stay around a moment longer. He limped off up the stairs and into the bedroom, his light footsteps echoing throughout the halls of the Marsh home.

As soon as they heard the bedroom door shut, Kenny immediately turned to Stan.

"Dude, he looks bad," Kenny stage-whispered, "Like, really, really bad."

"Yeah, I know," Stan rubbed the back of his neck, "I feel terrible for him. I thought for sure, one hundred percent, that he would feel better and start acting like himself again after he finally told Ike off. I thought he just needed to get that off his chest and then he would finally go back to normal, you know? But, like, it's the opposite. I think he feels bad for going off in the library like he did. I think it's really weighing down on him."

"It's not that, dude," Kenny's eyes were a piercing shade of icy-blue, "It's not just emotional stuff."

"Mental, then."

"No, dude, it's physical," Kenny urged, "He's sick. He's got to be sick."

"But he can't still have DKA, that's impossible. I check his glucose, like, ten times a day and he's always fine."

"Maybe it's not DKA, it doesn't have to be that," Kenny gripped his hair in his hands, "I mean, just the sight of him has to tell you he's sick. He's so tiny, dude."

"He's wearing Clyde's sweater," Stan explained, "It makes him look smaller than he actually is. He's not really that skinny."

His words didn't calm Kenny in the slightest, "Has he been eating okay?"

Stan's mouth went dry, "No."

Kenny removed his hands from his hair in an abnormally slow manner, as if he were moving through tar, "Stan. Tell me you're not-... Ike wasn't right about you-you know- starving him, was he?"

"God, no, Kenny!" Stan was exasperated, "What kind of monster do you take me for? I've been doing just the opposite, dude. I try to get him to eat all the time."

"And does he?"

"What?"

"Does he eat?"

"Sometimes."

"What does he eat?"

"I don't know. Usually liquid foods."

"How much does he weigh?"

"I don't know."

"Whaddya mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know how much he weighs."

"Geez Louise! You don't try to feed him?"

"I do try. All the time. I can't force him," Stan tried not to be harsh, "You should know that, Kenny, you're the one who advocates for everything to be Kyle's choice."

Kenny grimaced, "I know. I know. I still stand by that. But, like, it's food… He needs it."

Stan had to swallow a lump in his throat before saying, "Remember when in the library, Ike said that thing about force-feeding him? That just-... The idea disgusts me. I'm trying to do the exact opposite. I get the feeling Kyle is still pretty mad at Ike, and I want to show him that I'm not Ike. That I'm better. And that I can take better care of him."

Kenny let out a strained sigh.

"Hey, I swore on my life and Kyle's that I would do better," Stan stated bluntly.

"I know. I know. That's fine. I also disagree with forcing him to do anything. But still," the blonde replied through clenched teeth, frustration boiling behind the blue of his eyes, "Why's he so uncomfortable with food anyway? Like, he never used to have problems with food before."

"Well, that's not true. He's had problems with food before," Stan shook his head to clear his mind, "But right now, he has this, like, paranoid fear of throwing up. Like, to the point where he doesn't want to eat anything. And when he does, he just wants broth, as you saw."

"Dude, that's awful."

"Yeah. Worst part is, it's all in his head. Apparently Ike told him something about vomiting as, like, a defense mechanism or something; it spooked him pretty bad and I think that's why he's acting this way."

"Okay nice try there, asshole, but we can't blame Ike for everything. It's not a bad theory he had," Kenny let out a long sigh, "Shitfuck, why does everything just get worse and worse? It's not fair."

"Life's not fair, Ken. That's a pretty basic life lesson," Stan said. He moved to the basketball toy in the living room, picking up the little rubber ball on the floor. He started to shoot a few hoops to keep his thoughts flowing, letting the ball rebound off the cardboard backboard.

Kenny followed him and flopped down on the couch dejectedly, "He's sick."

"He might not be," Stan shot a 3-pointer.

"No. He's so sick," Kenny grumbled, nursing his beer bottle as he watched Stan play, "You know, it's funny."

"What's funny?" Stan shot another 3-pointer.

"Well, I guess it's not funny. It's like, sad-funny," Kenny scratched his nose, "It's always been a rule of this town, hasn't it? It's like an unspoken law that Kyle never wins and bad stuff always happens to him."

The ball bounced off the flimsy plastic hoop. Stan turned to face Kenny, "What do you mean by that?"

"Like, with Cartman, for example," Kenny set his beer aside, "He always won. Kyle was the voice of reason, and even if it seemed like he had the upper hand, the fatass always beat him. He's a stubborn little fighter, and he'll keep pushing 'till the end, but he doesn't win. He has, like, the worst luck in the world. He never wins in South Park."

"Oh," Stan stooped down to pick up the ball, "Well, he's gonna win this time."

"Against what?" Kenny shifted on the couch, "What is he fighting?"

"I dunno."

"..."

"..."

"Hey, pal, can I ask you something?" Kenny asked carefully, cautious in the way he looked at him.

The rubber basketball riveted off the hoop completely, Stan jumped to catch the rebound and dunk it back through the net. After he scored, he took a breath and twirled the ball in his hands, "Sure. What do you need?"

"Do you have to play while we're talking, dude?" Kenny groaned.

"Yeah, actually," Stan tossed the ball in between his hands, "Kyle says exercise helps clear my head. Was that your question or did you want to ask something else?"

Kenny pursed his lips, "Did you say exercise helps clear your head?"

"Yeah, I think so," Stan stopped to breathe, "I mean, Kyle and I believe it helps me think better. I think I have more control over myself when I'm moving."

There was a delighted invigoration sparkling in of Kenny's eyes that lit up the rest of his face. It was as though he had just seen the most wonderful treasure in the world. He actually guffawed with glee before he said, "Dude! You should go to your game!"

"What?"

"The charity game tomorrow! You should go!"

"I don't know."

"Whaddya mean you don't know? You should go!"

Stan tossed the ball between his hands, "I know it might be good for me-"

"-It would be so good for you!"

"But I can't just leave Kyle."

"That won't be a big deal, I'll watch him!"

"But he said if I was gonna play, he wanted to come."

"I'll sit in the stands with him, dude! We'll watch you play! Just like old times!"

Stan rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't know, dude."

"Bro, you should! You so should!" Kenny was exasperated, "Why don't you want to?"

"I- I just-" Stan tossed the ball between his hands more fervently now, in an effort to keep his thoughts flowing, "I don't feel comfortable with that. I- I would much rather have Kyle closer to me. I want to be able to keep an eye on him."

"But I'd look after him fine. It's not like I'd be babysitting, I'd only be lookin' out for the lil' guy," Kenny's tone shifted to something a little softer, "You do trust me, right?"

"It's not that," Stan avoided the question, tossing the ball even faster, "It's just, I mean if anything happened to him, I wouldn't be able to help unless I walk off the field, you know? It's like a lose-lose scenario."

"'Happen to him?' What, like he gets hit by a ball?"

"You know that's not what I mean, Ken. You know what I'm talking about."

Kenny gave his shoulder a gentle pat, "C'mon, Stan. We both know very well that if we're there with him, we ain't gonna let a thing happen to 'im."

Brushing aside the physical comfort, Stan just squeezed the ball in his hand almost as if it were a stress-ball, "But what if Ike's there?"

"Do you really think that pretentious lil' Canadian is gonna willingly go to a high school American football game?"

"He might if Kyle's there."

"...When you're right, you're right," Kenny sighed again, "A'ight I know we keep talking about how the game would be good for you, but do you even want to play?"

Stan squeezed the ball.

"Do you?"

"Yeah," Stan was squishing it repeatedly now, exactly as if it were a stress-ball, "I really, really do. I haven't played a game in months. I miss it. I miss the feel of it."

"Then you should go! C'mon, it's for charity!" Kenny kicked his feet at the couch, like how an excited little kid would.

"What's the charity this year?" Stan asked, though he didn't really want to know.

Kenny poked his cheek with his tongue in thought, "Uh. Let's see. If I 'member correctly, it was going to be prostate cancer awareness, I think. But then they kinda changed it last second."

"They changed it last second? Just like that?"

"I think so. I don't know the full story."

"Who changed it?"

"I don't know. Some guy."

"What'd they change it to?"

"Uh. Preventing child trafficking, I think? Online trafficking? Something like that."

Stan made a choked sound, a sound he didn't even know he was capable of making, "You know about the pictures, too?"

"What pictures?" Kenny tilted his head to the side.

"You don't know?"

"What're you talking about? What pictures?"

"...Never mind," Stan went back to squeezing the ball.

Kenny watched him carefully, "I really think you should go, dude. It's tomorrow night."

"Would you lower your voice, damn it? Kyle's sleeping," Stan huffed, despite the fact that Kenny was barely talking above a whisper now.

"Bro, if you want to go, you should go. Everyone wants to see you there. Why are you holding back?"

"'cause I have to watch Kyle."

"You don't have to watch him."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I-"

"-Stan!"

Before Kenny's warning could come out, Stan felt the rubber ball explode from beneath the pressure of his fingers. It ruptured from the inside, the sides caving in and collapsing under a loud pop.

Kenny gaped, "Dude."

"...I know. I'm sorry."

"Dude, that was kinda impressive."

"Oh, was it?" Stan haphazardly asked. He moved to the kitchen, tossing the deflated ball into the trash can.

"Kinda scary, though," Kenny took a sip from his beer, eying Stan from a distance, "Did you do that on purpose, or-?"

"No, no," Stan opened the fridge for another bottle, "I just don't know my own strength."

"Oh," Kenny went abnormally still at that line.

"What?"

"It's just-..." the blonde was visibly concerned in piecing together the right words, "The broken lock on the front door. Was that you? Did you break that?"

"Yeah. Apparently it wasn't the first time either," Stan said before he burped, "Excuse me. Anyway, that's just what Kyle said when we were in Laramie. He said I broke the bathroom door lock, but I don't really remember doing that."

"Didja say you don't remember?"

"I don't remember it at all. For that reason, I don't really believe it happened," he took another beer from the fridge and then called over his shoulder, "Hey, do you want another?"

"No. Stan-"

"-You driving or something?"

"No, I walked. Stan, you-"

"-More for me, I guess," Stan said somberly. He unscrewed the lid and sat back down on the sofa.

Kenny didn't even move to make more room. He just leaned forward on the couch, "You, um-... You should go to the game tomorrow night. Kyle and I will be there, okay? And we'll keep away from the stands in case Ike's there."

"If you aren't gonna be in the stands, where'll you sit for the game?" Stan snorted, the effects of the alcohol wearing in, "On top of the goddamn telethon?"

Kenny pursed his lips in contemplation, "What if, uh… Hold on, I'm tryna use my noggin."

"Good luck," Stan grunted.

Kenny held up a finger in eureka, "Okay, work with me, here. I got an idea, work with me. What if Kylie-B was y'all's water-boy?"

"Seriously?"

"What? Why not?" Kenny was becoming enthusiastic, and Stan could see it. He was practically bouncing up and down on the couch cushions as he explained, "He'd be really close to you the whole game, so you can keep an eye on 'im the whole time, even while you're playing. And he'd be on the field so no one in the stands could approach him, even if they tried!"

"But Butters is always our water-boy."

"Psha, it's Butters!" Kenny laughed, "You know how nice he is, he'll step aside if Kyle wants him to! Besides, even if he doesn't, I can get him grounded 'n get him out of the picture! Literally, all he has to do is breathe too loud before he's not allowed out of his room!"

"Ken," Stan pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the early stages of a headache come upon him, "Don't you know how heavy that water is, though?"

Kenny laughed, "No, dude. I didn't know water was heavy!"

"No, the water barrels. Those things have got to weigh at least as much as Kyle. There's no way he'd be able to lift them without hurting himself."

"Oh," Kenny resembled the rubber basketball: deflated.

"Yeah."

"Sorry. Guess I just got excited."

"You're fine. You're allowed to have an imagination."

"Hey, Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"The, uh. The question I wanted to ask you…"

"Spit it out," Stan said as lightly as he could.

He could sense his friend's sensitivity arising, and it made Stan a bit nervous. Kenny looked like he was preparing himself to open Pandora's Box; he held his head low but his gaze upright, his blue eyes searching for veracity.

Kenny twirled the bottle cap between his fingers again, his mind travelling elsewhere, when he asked, "So, like-... Do you really not know how much Kyle weighs?"

Stan could have laughed.

But the seriousness in Kenny's tone forbade him from doing so.
Instead, Stan just took a gulp from his beer and answered, "No. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I don't know. Why's that a concern, exactly?"

"I don't know, it just won't sit right with me… I thought you knew absolutely everything about him."

"I mean, I know a lot. Probably more than anyone else. But I don't know everything. That's just ridiculous."

"It's really not ridiculous, Stan," Kenny said weakly, the tone in his voice borderline whiny, "Ike, um-... Ike had a point. Ike had a really good point the other day when he said you have an 'unyielding infatuation' with Kyle. I swear I thought you knew everything about him. Are you sure you don't know? I'm pretty sure you know."

"I really don't. Why're you bringing Ike into this?" Stan did his best to not come across as angry, but the ruggedness in his voice probably did just the opposite.

"Because he made a good point, dude. Face the facts."

"What facts?"

"Stan, you know."

"I don't know."

"I know you know"

"Know what?"

"The facts!"

"Kenny, why're you getting upset?!"

Kenny got up on his knees, leaning forward with an intensity so direct that it made Stan's heart leap into his throat. His eyes, once sky blue, now icy cerulean, penetrated Stan like needles, a fierce transfixion drilling him to the core.
Then in a voice that didn't sound like his own, Kenny delivered the final blow; "Stan, you are obsessed with him! You're obsessed with Kyle!"

Stan pulled back automatically. He stood up from the couch like a shot, bolting past the living room to the front door, where mere seconds later, he heedlessly found himself lacing up his running shoes.

Kenny scrambled to his side breathlessly, "Dude! What're you doing?!"

"I-" Stan was out of breath, too, "I don't know. I- I think I'm going on a run."

"Stan, no! You can't just run away from your problems!"

"It'll be quick, I'll just-"

"-Stan, no!" Kenny cried. He threw his arms around Stan to lock him in place, hugging him firmly.

Stan had the impulse to pull away and just run for it, but something grounded him to Kenny's hold. Something about the way Kenny held him was consoling in a way he couldn't describe. His arms were supportive, understanding. Stan felt like he could sink into Kenny's chest and disappear into warmth and just leave everything behind. It was as though the mere feeling of being held, of being loved, was able to wash away all the torment in his gut.

Stan's arms were made of lead. He couldn't lift them. So Kenny hugged him tighter, using his whole body to encumber him, and Stan leaned in further.

As he fawned there in Kenny's hold, Stan found himself missing Kyle. They were only a few dozen feet apart. Kyle was only upstairs. But Stan missed him. He missed him severely. He missed him with so much pain and so much intensity that his harbor in Kenny's arms was acutely destroyed at the thought of him.

He swallowed a lump in his throat, "Sorry."

Kenny let go of Stan, leaning back to take him in, "No, dude. I'm sorry. I shouldn't've called you out so soon like that. I know you're… sensitive."

"It's okay," Stan stood on shaky knees, "I know you didn't mean it."

"No, I meant it. I just-" Kenny stopped himself. He wiped his nose, turning away, "Are you gonna do your game tomorrow night?"

"Yeah," Stan said, casting a glance upstairs at his bedroom door, where he knew Kyle was sleeping soundly, "I'll find him a position on the field. I'll keep him safe."

"We will," Kenny corrected. If he noticed where Stan's gaze was pointed, he didn't address it.
Instead, he just stuffed his hands in the pockets of his parka and asked, "Dude, can I spend the night here? I wanna keep an eye on things. Would that be alright with you?"

"I guess," Stan answered inattentively, "I don't really care. I'm, uh, I'm gonna go check on Kyle."

"But he's sleeping," Kenny said, a strained worry creasing into his features.

"I'm just gonna check on him," Stan was already halfway up the stairs, "Good night, Ken. You can sleep wherever, my parents' room, my sister's room, the couch, wherever you want. I don't care. If you're hungry, there's food in the fridge."

"I'm not hungry," Kenny half-whispered, his eyes glued to the quarterback as he ascended.

"If you get hungry later, then. Make yourself at home," Stan now arrived at his bedroom door. He was about to walk in, but then he paused, turning around to add, "But Kenny, don't make any messes, okay? Kyle hates messes."