If you made it this far, you deserve a bouquet of flowers!

I apologize for the length of this chapter. It is a tidbit longer than what I would prefer, however, I felt as though it needed this length considering all the heavy content. I hope it's not too choppy. Prepare thyself? :0

Warnings: extreme violence, dubious violence, upsetting suspicions, and death

(oof)

Stan couldn't be certain, but he swore that at the last verse of the Star Spangled Banner, Wendy Testaburger was looking at him.

It was a large arena. It had to be housing at least a couple hundred people right now, and it was nighttime, the only brightness coming from the stadium lights, so she really could have been looking at anyone; under all these conditions, it was hard to say for sure. But Stan swore she was looking right at him. He could feel the burn of her dark brown eyes, the vibrant intensity of her soul beneath them as her voice serenaded the valley.

Whatever message she was trying to give him, it didn't reach him. There were too many emotions in her chocolate-colored eyes, too many hidden messages in her song, and far too many distractions from all around the arena for Stan to be able to hone in on her. She was trying to give a private message in a public space. In Stan's space. In his arena.

So Stan didn't give her the benefit of the doubt. He just went on doing what everybody else was doing, holding his hand over his heart, his helmet at his hip, as he honored the American flag; he didn't even give her a passing glance.

Like he said to Kyle, she wasn't his favorite person anymore.

Just like the drive home from Laramie, the welcome from his teammates, and the adoration of the crowd, Wendy just couldn't affect him anymore. She didn't mean anything. She didn't feel like love.

"O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!" Wendy finished on a high note, her singing voice remarkably more angelic than what Stan anticipated. Dressed in a pale green ball gown, she waved a 'thank you' to the crowd, smiling from ear to ear as they erupted into cheers. Gathering tufts of her dress in her hands, she tried to make eye contact with Stan one last time before she was escorted off the field.

Even if Stan wanted to look at her, he couldn't. There were too many other important things going on that snared away his attention.

The game was starting.

Charity games rarely had adequate staff, and there were very few adults helping out tonight, so it was Butters' job to do the coin flip at the start of the game. While Butters was occupied in briefing the shorthanded staff members, Stan took the opportunity to step out of line with his teammates and approach the bench, where Kyle was sitting with his arms crossed.

At Stan's drawing near, Kyle gave him a bittersweet smile.

"Dude," Kyle shook his head, taking the helmet from Stan's hands, "What're you doing? You gotta wear this."

"The game hasn't started yet!" Stan snatched it back, securing it firmly around his head, "Besides, we're supposed to take them off for the national anthem."

"She sang it beautifully, didn't she?"

"I don't know. I guess," Stan shrugged.

Kyle gawked, "Damn. You finally got over Wendy. Finally! It only took, like, what? Eight years? Good for you!"

"Thanks," Stan smiled, his heart tickled by Kyle's excitement. The fluorescent yellow jersey Kyle wore was tacky and disgusting, but its brightness illuminated his face better than the stadium lights did, giving him a glow that made him look more alive than he had in a week. He really did look excited, his discomfort with being a towel bearer pushed aside. Stan could almost say that Kyle looked happy, and that "almost" was a beautiful sight to see.

He accidentally stared.

"You good, dude?" Kyle raised an eyebrow.

Stan blinked, "Sorry. I just-... Do you know where Kenny is?"

"Yeah actually. He bought seats up close. See?" Kyle turned over his shoulder and waved up to the seats, where a blonde in an orange parka sat in the front bleacher. Kenny gave Kyle a hyper wave, grinning excitedly.

It almost felt normal. They were all here, excited, almost happy. But it wasn't right. Something was wrong.

Stan scanned the seats for a certain Canadian creep, but couldn't spot him anywhere. He frowned. He had a feeling that Ike would show up, and that gut-driven intuition had yet to leave his system. Kenny had told him he would look for him, but Kenny didn't seem to be doing much of anything besides eating snacks and keeping an eye on Stan and Kyle.

"Stan?" Kyle asked, noticing his disposition, "What're you thinking about?"

Stan scanned the seats once last time before returning his gaze, "Nothing. Just that this is going to be a good game."

"Damn straight," Kyle squeezed Stan's shoulder, "I have faith in you, okay? Do your best out there. You're going to get better."

"I am," Stan agreed.

From behind him, Stan heard a ref blowing the whistle and the players starting to jog to their positions. It looked like North Park was on offense first, meaning Stan would be on the safety position for the first few runs. He saw his teammates waving him over, calling his name, so he gave Kyle a good-bye wave before slipping in his mouthguard and getting into position.

He could feel the faux grass between his gloved fingers and it brought him a spurt of reassurance that he didn't know he needed.

Stan was nervous; he was usually never nervous on game nights. He knew this was going to be a good game, but there was still some lurking feeling that he couldn't brush off. He had total confidence that this game was going to be good for both himself and for Kyle, but something about all of this still felt… off.

Over his shoulder, he could see Kyle sitting idly on the bench, watching him with that same eager anticipation everyone else in the audience did.

He snapped back into focus when the countdown timer started.

This was no time to work himself up. Kyle was right there, he wasn't moving. He was going to be fine. He was going to sit there, deal out towels, and be okay the whole time. Stan would make sure of it.

For now, he just had to focus on the game.

He heard the familiar smack of the other quarterback snapping the ball down the field, and he felt a smile form around his mouthguard. This was going to be good.

"Shit! Ow!"

"What's the matter with you, McCormick?"

Kenny's jaw dropped open at the voice. It couldn't be.

He whipped around to see Ike Broflovski descending the bleacher seats, moving to sit next to him in the front row. He was dressed way too nice for a high school charity game, and his face carried that ever-present stoic, somewhat bored, expression as he sat down and crossed his ankles.

"Dude," Kenny guffawed, "I, uh. I didn't know you would be here."

Ike rolled his eyes, "Yes, you did."

"Maybe a little bit? I was sorta just thinking you would, but I didn't know for sure..." Kenny forced a shrug, trying to swallow down the suspicion rising in the back of his throat. He was used to Ike's remoteness by now, he accepted that it was just part of his personality. But something about his presence was extremely off-putting today. Ike was as nonchalant as ever, but he carried with him a perplexing bout of confidence. Looking at him now, Kenny couldn't help but think back to the conversation he had in Stan's living room, when he and Stan both agreed that Ike was onto something, and that perhaps he knew something that they didn't know.

"What? Cat got your tongue, McCormick?"

Kenny tilted his head to the side, "Pardon?"

Ike rolled his eyes again, "I asked what was the matter with you. You said 'ow.'"

"Oh," Kenny laughed, shaking the slushie in his hands, "Brain freeze."

Ike picked up an empty cookie wrapper disgustedly and dropped it to the ground, wrinkling his nose, "You certainly have a lot of food for just yourself."

"Three reasons for that, my dude," Kenny took a sip of his slushie, despite the awful, icy pain it gave his head. He winced, but recovered, "One, my stomach is literally a black hole. Two, I figured that at some point, either you, the fatass, or somebody else I know would show up, and I wanted to be the nice guy and share. Three, I got a lot of food in case the Kylie-B got hungry. I wanna be able to provide for him if he needs it."

Ike frowned at that, "I knew he would be here. But I've searched every seat in the house and I couldn't find him."

"That's 'cause he ain't in a seat, dude," Kenny pointed to the field, "Lookit the bench. See the little ginger? There he is."

Ike's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the boy on the track bench. They were viewing him from behind, the field just ahead of him. He sat with his legs crossed like a child, a limp towel hanging pointlessly from his hands.

Kenny watched as Ike's dark eyes brewed over, their stare intensifying.

"So Marsh wanted to keep him within his personal reach," Ike grimaced.

"Ding ding ding. You got it," Kenny raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He finished off his slushie, and then took a swig from a jug of soda, "I dunno how Kyle feels about it. I doubt he's having fun handing out towels to a buncha sweaty jockstraps. But everything's been going really smoothly this whole game."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, actually," Kenny burped, pounding at his chest, "We're not even close to halftime, but we're already ahead by fourteen, thanks to Stan. He's been a beast out there, dude. It's like nothing's changed for him. He's still the star player, like he-Woop! There he is! Look, look at him go!"

Just as Kenny pointed it out, down the center of the field, Stan was bolting with large defensive linemen at his heels. They were coming on top of him, mere seconds away from tackling him to the ground, but Stan tucked the ball around his chest, rolling to safety at a yard line before they could lay a finger on him. The crowd erupted into explosive cheers, and for good reason; they weren't even in the fourth down, but Stan already managed to push the team as far as they could possibly be to the endzone.

"He. Is. Good," Kenny twirled the ice around in his drink, "Hey, doya want anything to eat, Ike? Cotton candy? Pretzels? I got pretty much everything from concessions, so I got plenty to share, dude."

"Eh, I'll help myself," Ike muttered haphazardly. He picked up an untouched energy drink before returning his attention to the field, "I wasn't referring to the game. I want to know how they're doing."

He didn't need to specify who he was referring to, Kenny knew.

"Pretty okay, actually," Kenny paused before he added, "From what I can see."

"Hm," Ike methodically took a sip from the can.

"Y'know, I thought with the Kylie-B on the field, Stan would get real distracted and hurt himself or something. But as you can see," Kenny pointed to the scoreboard, "He's doing great! We knew this game would be good for him. We think it'll help him focus and think better and stuff, and I think it is!"

"Does he know I'm here?"

Kenny tilted his head in contemplation, "You know, I don't think he does. You sorta showed up late. And he hasn't looked our way since the game started, so prolly not."

They both watched as Stan took a few seconds to approach Kyle at the bench. They were still in the middle of the game, the timer was counting down, but Stan nonetheless took the time to jog all the way across the field and greet him. He bent down to his level, smiling, and talked to him a little.
From the distance and the various background noises, it was impossible for Kenny to know what he was saying.
Then Stan gave Kyle's shoulders a light squeeze, before jogging back to his position just in time to snap the ball and rush back into action.

"I'm not convinced," Ike said, watching the quarterback like a hawk.

"Oh, he just does that in between downs," Kenny casually explained, "He runs over to check on Kyle. I think his teammates hate it, but I mean, come on. It's not like they're gonna stop him. Plus, out of context, it's kinda adorable."

"But we're not out of context," Ike reminded bitterly.

Kenny sighed, "Right. But that's about all Stan's done today, just check on him. He's said a few weird side comments, but that's about it. Stan looks happier and healthier than he has all week, though, so that's a step in the right direction."

"And how's Kyle?" Ike asked, getting right to the point.

Kenny bit the inside of his cheek. He should have known that Ike didn't give a damn about Stan's state of being, only Kyle's.

"I dunno," he answered honestly, feeling guilt flood his chest, "I wish I could tell you straightforward, but I don't think there's a single answer to that question."

"Hm."

Kenny watched the kid next to him for any signs of emotional intrigue, but Ike was just as reserved as he was moments ago. Even at the mention of his older brother, Ike was aloof, but still carried that reserved confidence that Kenny speculated about.

It was strange to say the least. But regardless, Ike was still Kyle's brother and he deserved to know about his well-being. So Kenny had to tell him.

"For one thing, I think he's happier," Kenny started to stress-eat from a bag of circus peanuts, "He has a lot of confidence in Stan, which is cool and all, but not realistic. Kinda sad, actually. So I spent the night at Stan's yesterday to keep an eye on 'em. They're okay. Stan doesn't, like... bruise him anymore, from what I could see."

"What has Kyle been doing all this time outside of school?" Ike asked, clenching a fist around his drink, "He hates taking absent days. It's so unlike him."

"Sleeping. I was only there for a night and a day, but I didn't see very much of him, 'cause he was upstairs asleep," Kenny spoke while chewing, "To be honest, I'm real scared for him. He seems happier, but it just doesn't seem right. He ain't lookin' so hot."

"Is that so?" Ike looked back to his brother on the bench, frowning, "His backside is toward us. I can't see his face."

"Oh, we can fix that," Kenny took one last mouthful of circus peanuts before wiping his hands on his shirt. When his hands were clean, he brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled.

Kyle turned around at the sound, his face lighting up at the sight of them. He waved a 'hello.'

Kenny blew a kiss and winked.

But Ike didn't respond at all. His expression didn't even shift. He just went stiff in the spine, and that was it.

When a whistle was blown and a flag was thrown down, Stan approached the bench yet again, Kyle turning to face him and give him a towel.

When he was sure Kyle wasn't looking at them anymore, Kenny nudged Ike's elbow and demanded, "Dude. The fuck is your problem? Why didn't you say hi?"

Ike didn't answer his question, "He's too thin. He looks even worse than when I last saw him."

Guilt was eating away at Kenny's heart again.
All of a sudden, he felt ashamed for gorging on so many snacks while one of his best friends was down there, unable to eat.
He should have just pulled out his e-cigarette.

"Did you witness evidence of Marsh starving him while you were at his house?" Ike asked, his tone entirely too calm for the extremity of what he was asking.

Kenny crumpled up the empty peanut bag in disgust, "Nah. But he's enabling the Kylie-B's eating habits, so it's just as bad."

"So Marsh is starving him."

"I, uh. No, I don't think he is."

"He is. Just untraditionally. But it's starving nonetheless," Ike took a sip from his drink, "If a child is playing with a gun, but the parent does nothing to stop him, eventually, the child is going to pull the trigger and hurt himself. But it's nonetheless the parent's fault for allowing it to happen, wouldn't you agree?"

Kenny's gut twitched. How was he even supposed to respond to that?

"Stan's not-" Kenny fumbled for the right words, "Stan's not neglecting him. Not like Kyle depends on him or anything like that, the Kylie-B is a person, he can look after himself."

"No, he can't."

"Ike…"

"He can't."

"S-Stan- He- Stan's just being stupid, that's all."

Ike shrugged, "I'm only saying that it's Marsh's fault my brother isn't well. I've never seen him-or anyone for that matter- look like that."

There was a sickening truth to Ike's words, and it didn't sit well in Kenny's stomach.

He took a deep breath before confessing, "So, like, I don't know how much you know about me. But you know I was abused growin' up, right?"

Ike looked at him skeptically, "Where is this coming from?"

"It's just-" Kenny ran his hands through his hair nervously, "Me and my brother and sister were abused. I got beaten on a daily basis. I swear there were times that our parents forgot to feed us for, like, almost a week straight. I almost got hospitalized for malnutrition or some shit like that. For years, until I moved in with the Scotches, I was the weakest kid in school. And even then, I-..."

"You what?"

"Even then, I never looked as bad as the Kylie-B looks now…"

"Exactly."

"What's 'exactly' s'pposed to mean?" Kenny asked, suspicion creeping up his spine. His stomach started to feel queasy; he couldn't yet grasp the reason why, but he could easily guess it was because of Ike's eerily calm demeanour. It was like the kid was empty in his own remoteness.

"Doesn't matter," Ike shifted his drink to his other hand to look at his wristwatch.

"That's a fancy lookin' watch," Kenny said, just for the sake of having something to say, "Looks expensive."

"It is."

Kenny was about to ask him something, but then he noticed commotion on the field. The North Park team called a time-out, the players and understaffed refs crowding together in a huddle centerfield.

"What's going on?" Kenny asked, feeling stupid for having not paid attention, "Did someone get hurt?"

"No one got hurt," Ike muttered, not even looking up from his wristwatch.

Kenny watched in morbid confusion as a North Park player jogged off the field.

"Well, a dude just left."

"They're only switching players," Ike explained, sounding bored.

Just as the words left Ike's mouth, there was a movement on one of the benches of the North Park side. Another athlete slipped on a helmet and made his way to the front linebacker position.

Kenny couldn't help but notice how huge this guy was. It was hard to believe that this guy was a high schooler, he was massive. He looked like an adult, really. He was several inches taller than everyone else, and at least one hundred pounds heavier. In Kenny's opinion, this player looked like Bluto from the Popeye cartoon.

"That's weird as fuck," Kenny muttered.

He expected Ike to respond, but the Canadian paid him no mind. He finished off his energy drink and then stood up, dusting off his hands, "Well, I suppose I might run into you another time, McCormick. Farewell for now."

"Waitaminute," Kenny shot up, "You're leaving?"

Ike stopped, "Yes. And?"

"Now? But, like, now?"

Ike looked at him strangely.

Kenny could feel himself start to get anxious. His hands went clammy and cold when he weakly said, "But-... we ain't even to halftime yet."

"That's quite alright with me. I have no interest in football," Ike sneered, "Especially if everyone is only here to glorify Marsh."

"But you can't leave now!" Kenny exclaimed, genuinely surprised at the great desperation in his tone.

Ike wasn't moved, "Why can't I leave?"

"Well…" Kenny tried to think, "Well, you haven't even spoken to Kyle yet. I'm sure he might still be a lil' mad at you, but come on, you know how soft he is for you. I'm sure he'll wanna see you. Don't you wanna see him?"

"It's okay. I'll see him later."

"Wait," Kenny shot up from his seat, "What's that mean?"

Ike paused, looking at him condescendingly, "I think you know what 'later' means. You're not that incompetent."

"No, no," Kenny scrambled, his mind whirring, "It's just- Whaddya mean you'll see him later? Like, are you going to Stan's house soon?"

"Something like that."

"When?"

"Soon."

"When's soon?"

"Soon. Adverb. It means 'in or after a short time.'"

"How short is a short time? Why are you visiting Stan's house? Does he know?"

"I doubt he does."

"Does Kyle know?"

"He will."

Kenny suppressed the urge to shudder. He was anxious down to the tips of his fingers, fear wracking his entire body. Something about this conversation was so off-putting that it was terrifying.

"Ike," Kenny stood from the seats, approaching him with caution, "What're you planning, dude?"

The creep took too long to respond. He stood there in the aisle of the arena seats, his hand rested on a pole, as he looked down at Kenny from a higher stairstep. His eyes were so dark that they looked black when their gaze penetrated Kenny's soul, burning deeply into the stare.

Kenny allowed himself to shudder now. Ike was staring like a dead body.

"McCormick," Ike said, his voice crisp and even, "I give you my word that what I'm planning is for the greater good of both my brother and Marsh. Everything will tide over just fine."

Kenny's gut twisted with dread, "Ike, no one's-... No one's gonna get hurt, are they?"

"I can't predict the future, so I can't answer that question with confidence."

"Are you gonna hurt Stan?"

"No. I won't."

"Wha- What about Kyle?" Kenny asked, his anxiousness rising with every second, "Is- Is the Kylie-B gonna get hurt?"

"If he is, it would be Marsh's fault. Not mine."

Kenny felt terror seal his throat, but he managed to squeak out, "What's that s'pposed to mean?"

Ike gave one last long look to the field, eyeing his brother on the bench. It was impossible to read what thoughts were passing through him, the dark shroud of his eyes masked all emotion. When he stared for a little too long, he pulled away.
He gave Kenny a curt nod, "See you later, McCormick."

And just like that, Ike turned around and ascended the stadium steps, passing the unnoticing audience, until he was completely out of Kenny's line of vision.

Even though Ike was gone, his eerie presence remained. As Kenny stood there, all alone among the crowd, he was mute with terror. Anxiety stole his words. He couldn't speak. He was in a complete state of panic, and worst of all, he still didn't know why.

Ike didn't solve any mysteries, he didn't answer any questions. He was still this uncanny enigma looming in the shadows, and his words echoed atrociously through Kenny's racing brain.

At the sound of violent screaming, Kenny's attention snapped back to the field.

Three football players lied cowering on the grass, moaning and gripping their injuries as their teammates surrounded them in panic. One of them was a North Park athlete. The second was the Bluto-like player. The third one was Stan.

Stan hunched over on the ground, his back arched, as he clenched the sides of his head, madly digging the mouth of his helmet into the ground.

Kenny was numb with shock. He knew that stance. He had seen it too many times.

"Shitfuck… Not again…"

Stan felt like someone shut off the lights.

Which… was weird, to say the least. He had been outside, hadn't he?

Outside or not, everything in Stan's line of vision went black when he felt a major blow at the side of his skull. When his vision returned, he found himself hunched over on the grass, his breathing chaotically disordered, and a blaring pain in his head.

There were people all around him, surrounding him from every angle, and it made him nauseous. He was encased on all sides, his vision swimming. Some images of the people blurred together in his wavering line of sight, creating a disgusting vision of blurs and spots. Stan felt like he was going to throw up.

He buried his helmet into the ground, wrapping his arms around his head, to try to get himself stabilized.

He felt another pair of hands grab onto his helmet and gently tug it off. The mouthguard slipping from his mouth, Stan finally allowed himself to raise his head. He saw Kyle sitting there in front of him, pushing Stan's helmet to the side, and clasping his head in his hands.

Stan couldn't hear very well. He felt like he was sitting in the bottom of a bell jar, sounds were reverberating off its surface, but they were disordered in a way that Stan couldn't understand them. He couldn't make out the exact words, but he heard Kyle ask someone for a phone.

The next thing he knew, Kyle was shining the phone flashlight in his face.

"Stan?" Kyle asked, his voice finally rising above the cacophony around him, "Stan, look at me. Look at my hands. Can you follow my finger please?"

Stan squinted. He couldn't see a finger. He could only see the light. It was practically blinding him. He winced after staring at it too long.

"Shit," he heard Kyle mutter, frustration written everywhere all over his freckled face. He turned to an assistant ref on his side, "Can you get the paramedics over here, please? I think he has another concussion."

"No paramedics on charity games, they only work during the real season," the assistant ref sighed, "We barely have any adults in the whole house, too. We have to deal with this on our own."

"Shit," Kyle muttered again, looking utterly miserable, "God damn, this is all my fault. I pushed him to play. He probably didn't even want to play, but he pushed himself for my sake..."
Kyle lifted his gaze guiltily, his green eyes destitute with regret, "I'm sorry, Stan. I'm really, really sorry."

"Why're you sorry?" Stan asked, before flinching at the sudden jab of pain from his head.

"What're we gonna do?" the assistant ref asked, looking between the two.

Shakily, Kyle stood up from the ground, saying, "It's okay. I got him."

"Are you sure you're qualified to take care of him?"

Kyle glared, his eyes brimmed with tears, "He's my best friend. He's my responsibility."

"Kid, no offense, but you look like you need a paramedic more than he does."

"It's okay," Kyle trembled, scarily close to crying, "This isn't the first time. I've done this before."

Stan blacked out again, and when he came to, he felt several sets of hands help him stand up, his brain clouding for a few seconds. When his vision was clear, he saw that he was being walked toward the locker rooms, various people with unrecognizable faces helping him stay upright.

Kyle was talking to them, giving them instructions, but his speech was distorted and jumbled that it made Stan nervous. Was Kyle still sick? Why did he look so sad and weak?

Not two seconds later, Stan was gasping for air.

He had the breath knocked out of him when he felt cold water slam into his bare backside. He was sitting down in the locker room shower, dressed in nothing but his boxer briefs, as icy water pelted down on him from a showerhead, making him squirm, and writhe, and gasp under the arctic current.

When he caught his breath, he shuddered out a sigh of relief, the cold water washing away all of his tenseness. He was confused, disoriented, but at least now he was cooling off.

"Hey, how're you feeling?" Kyle asked, seated on a stool inside Stan's shower stall.

Stan could tell from the echo off Kyle's voice that they were alone together in the locker room, the only other sound being the pitter-pattered smacks of the shower.

Kyle wasn't wearing the jersey anymore, just a morbidly oversized sweater and a frown. He sat in a slouched position, far enough away that he couldn't get wet, but close enough for Stan to see the absolute heartache on his porcelain face.

"Kyle?" he asked, feeling his gut twist, "Why're you so sad?"

"You got hurt," Kyle said, "I know 'cause of your head that I'm not supposed to ask you too many questions, but, dude, do you remember what happened to you?"

Stan paused, the water raining down on him from above.

"I got a concussion," he answered. The only reason why he knew this was because he was in the locker room showers, wearing boxer briefs, while Kyle sat down next to him playing caretaker. This wasn't an unfamiliar scenario. They do this every time he gets a concussion. He didn't remember much, but he remembered that, at least.

"Dude, I'm so sorry," Kyle shivered, "I never meant for this to happen to you. I thought tonight was going to be good for you. I never meant-" he held back a sob, bringing a hand to his forehead, "-You only played for my sake, didn't you? Damn it, this is all my fault. I'm sorry, Stan, I'm so sorry."

Stan was paralyzed against the tiled floor, his anxiety climaxing as Kyle held himself together by a mere thread right in front of him.

"S-Stan, you stay here," Kyle tried to be commanding, but it came across as begging, "Stay here and cool off, okay? I'm going to go find someone to drive us to Hell's Pass."

"No."

Kyle went still, "Stan?"

He couldn't understand why, but there was this memory burning in the back of his mind absolutely forbidding him to go to the hospital. He didn't know what it was or why he was thinking it, but he couldn't go to the hospital. He was going to lose something-he was going to lose someone- if he did.

"No hospital," he quaked under the icy shower, "No. I can't- I can't go. I- No hospital."

A lump rose in Kyle's throat, "I- I guess you're right… They can't really do much for a concussion. They tell us the same thing every time, don't they?" he shivered again before standing from the stool, "Stay right here. I'm gonna go get someone from the audience to drive us home."

"Kyle, you can't go home. You don't want to go home."

Kyle went still, holding onto a wall with his shaking hands, "I won't go to my house, okay? You and I, we'll both go to your house, not mine. Is that okay?"

"I can't let you get hurt."

Kyle winced uncomfortably, "Dude, I know that. You say it every day. I'm not getting hurt, I'm just going to get you some help. I'll be right back."

"You're my super best friend."

Stan didn't know why, but all of a sudden, Kyle sobbed again. Except this time, he didn't hold back. It was a guttural, anguished sob that wracked his whole body.

Stan's throat clenched. What had he done wrong?

"'m gonna be right back… One minute, Stan. One minute," Kyle managed to squeak out, before limping out of the locker room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Stan stood up to chase after him. But he stood too quickly, making his head spin, and immediately slipped on the wet tile.

He fell to the ground with a smack, his knees scraping against the hard ground. He yelped in pain, but fought through it.

Stan's head was jumbled, his thoughts disjointed and disconnected. The only thing he could be sure of was that he wanted his super best friend by his side. Kyle was somewhere out there, languishing, miserable, and all by himself. Stan needed to be there beside him.

He managed to rise from the floor, leaning onto the walls for support. When his vision cleared up again, he found a door and went through it, slowly but surely walking his way down the familiar hall of the locker room.

At least, it should have been familiar.

As Stan walked down the hall, he found himself lost. His surroundings didn't look familiar at all. He was most definitely in a locker room of some kind, but it wasn't his. The walls were a different color, and the lockers weren't the same decorated ones his teammates owned.

His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a North Park jersey on the ground. There were various cleaning materials scattered about, and an unused electric cord coiled up in the corner.

He must have somehow stumbled into the visitors' locker room. He stared around confusedly. How the fuck did he end up in here?

"Oh my god, it's you."

Stan whipped around to see a boy about his age standing across the room. He cringed as he looked at the stranger, noticing his malformed, injured face. It looked like one of his cheeks was completely missing, and his nose and forehead were wrapped up in bandages.
With the kid's one unbruised eye, he gaped in fear at the sight of Stan.

"Fuck," he said with a slurred speech, "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I would've never taken the job if I knew you would be here. Why're you here? Shouldn't you be out playing?"

Stan's eyes narrowed when he stared at his facial injuries.

The sight of them ignited something inside him, sending a burning, flaring pulse of energy through his body. In his heated fury, Stan couldn't remember this person's name. But he remembered enough.

He remembered a party, and the way he was holding Kyle close, even though it risked making Kyle sick.

He remembered Clyde saying something about groping Kyle.

He remembered zip-ties and bloodied hands.

He remembered Kyle crying and screaming in the chill of the night.

Kyle crying. Kyle wasn't a crier. But he was still out there, right at this moment, crying and searching the audiences for a ride home. Kyle didn't even want to go home.

Stan balled his dripping wet hands into fists and stepped closer.

"Listen, man," the kid backed up against the wall, "I don't know what your problem is with me, but you better back off! You're fucking lucky I didn't press charges, but I will if you try anything again! So step off right now!"

Stan grabbed the nearby electric cord and walked in closer.

"Hey, I'm sorry I kissed your boyfriend, alright?!" he was backed up against the wall now, nowhere to turn, "Or- Or your friend! Was he a friend? A boyfriend? I don't know, man, I'm sorry!"

Stan started uncoiling the cord in his hands, drawing in even nearer.

"I couldn't help myself!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs, "He was just a nice kid, and fuck it, he was fucking cute, alright?! And he was sad! He was trying to have fun, but he was so sad, and I felt so bad for him! So I kissed him, alright?! I'm sorry! Just get the fuck away from me!"

Then it happened.

Stan blacked out again.

He felt a sharp pain in the side of his skull and everything went black. He could hear an ear-piercing ringing in the back of his subconscious, and he could hear nothing else.

But he was still conscious.

Or at least, partly conscious. He could have been in limbo for all he knows.

Stan couldn't see, or hear, or even think, but he could feel. He could feel the intensity of his hands working around the coil, working around flesh. He could feel himself pulling, tugging, wrenching, using the strength of ten men. There was something twisting inside his grip, something squirming to get away.

But he wrestled back, wringing, bending, and pressuring. He could feel his temples throb angrily, water from the shower dripping down his body as he stifled with every ounce of tenacity his hands could muster.

He didn't stop until he felt the flesh in his grip go cold.

It was only then that he could see again. When his vision returned, Stan looked down to see that he was holding the limp body of the boy from North Park High, the electric cord wound tightly around his neck. He stared ahead with dead hazel eyes, unflinching, unmoving, his mouth slightly hanging open, red blood painting his lips. His face was blue but his body was practically grey as it hung from Stan's arms, limbs dangling inertly.

Stan pulled away, flustered and thrown. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling very cold, still dripping wet in nothing but his boxer briefs. He shuddered, cold and confused, before walking out of the visitors' locker room.

When he made it outside and back into the arena, he hissed at the sudden light and noise, the ringing in his ears angrily ceasing. He felt a searing jab of pain to his head, and he cried out, raising his arms to hold it.

"Stan! How did you get out here?"

Stan brought his arms back down at the sound of Kyle's voice, feeling a burst of overwhelming happiness. He actually started laughing. He was laughing with the immediate joy, seeing Kyle rush up to his side.

"Oh my God, Stan, how did you get all the way out here?!" Kyle asked worriedly, "You were supposed to be in the showers. Oh God, look at you. God, you must be so confused. Stan, do you even know where you are?"

As soon as he was close enough, Stan wrapped Kyle in an embrace, pulling him close against his bare chest. He could feel Kyle's heightened heartbeat flickering against his ribs, and it made Stan hug him tighter.

"I missed you," Stan whispered, pressing his face into Kyle's hair.

Kyle bit his lower lip, but he didn't pull away, "Stan."

"Hm?"

"Do you know where you are?"

"Football game," Stan muttered, his lips pressed against the red curls.

"Okay… So at least there's that," Kyle said breathily, pulling back from the hug, "Dude, I'm real sorry about your head, and I'm sorry that I had that little meltdown in the showers. I should've been strong for you, dude."

"Stop apologizing. I hate it."

"Okay…" Kyle licked his lips, "I'm- We're gonna go back to your house now, okay? You need to rest up."

"Can I go with you?" Stan asked worriedly, absolutely mortified of the idea of having to part from his side again.

"Yes. Yes, dude, we're going together. I found us a ride. Leslie's driving us, okay?"

A bead of water dropped down Stan's face when he tilted his head to the side. He looked just beyond Kyle's shoulders to see Leslie erect by the arena's exit, one arm akimbo as she gave Stan a reserved glare.

Her stare threw him off-balance, and he found himself bewildered once again.

Stan sneezed.

"Bless you," Kyle said, "God, Leslie, we have to get him out of this cold. He's practically naked, and dripping wet… Shit. He's gonna catch a cold if we don't move fast."

"I can move fast," Leslie said, drawing in nearer. She gave a pointed look to the cast around Kyle's ankle, "But can you?"

"Hell no," Kyle admitted. His brows furrowed slightly, stress practically reeking off of his body. He gave an aggravated groan before submitting, "You know what? Leslie, just take him to your van. He needs to get out of the cold. I'll catch up with you, just take him."

She looked Kyle up and down.

Stan froze. Did Leslie just-?

She gave a weak nod, pressing her lips together, "Sure thing. I know you're stubborn, but don't rush yourself."

"I'll try," Kyle said with just as much surrender as Leslie had.

Stan swallowed. He reached out to touch Kyle, but Leslie took his arm and linked it with her own, leading him out of the arena with a quick pace.

Her other arm was out of a sleeve now, but was still wrapped up in a yellow and pink cast. She didn't look him in the eye once during their quick-paced commute to her van, she kept her head upright with a firm determination that Stan had never seen in her before.

When they made it to her van, Leslie got Stan into the back row and shoved a bottle of water in his hands.

For some reason, her aggravation made Stan laugh.

"Testy," he smirked.

She growled, working her way to the driver's seat and igniting the engine. The van gave a few clicks, before the engine roared and the air conditioning spewed into action.

Her irritability reminded Stan of Kyle. He found himself smiling at a few rushed memories of times when Kyle would rant about everything for hours on end, how he would quarrel with Cartman even though he knew he would lose, and how he would complain not because he was upset, but just because he loved to complain.

Stan laughed out of sheer happiness again, "Kyle was good for a bit."

Leslie turned around in her seat, "Do you want to run that by me again?"

"Today. On the field. And with me. He was giving orders. Being bossy. He likes to do that," Stan's smile turned into a frown, "He was good for a bit. Then he just… gave up."

"Stan, I doubt you can even understand what I'm saying, but there's something I really think you need to know. And you're sitting there in your underwear, dripping wet in the back of my van right now, so I think I have the right to tell you," Leslie's tone was even but firm when she pressed forward, "You've started a war, Stan."

Okay, now he was sure he had a concussion. He swore he just heard Leslie say that he started a fucking war.

Stan laughed again.

She glared at him now, "Girls versus Boys. You started it again. Except this isn't like the fourth grade, this time, it's serious."

Stan giggled like an idiot. Her words were ludicrous, but on the slight chance they were true, they certainly confirmed why Wendy and Bebe were giving him such harsh looks earlier tonight.

"The boys all think you and Kyle are just having a rough patch in your relationship. And to an extent, I think that's true," Leslie lowered the volume of her voice, but not the intensity, "But because they all worship you on the field, you've tricked the boys into thinking you're doing nothing but bickering like a married couple. But the girls and I know it's more than that."

"Hm. What's more?" Stan asked, all of a sudden forgetting how to open his water bottle.

Leslie snatched it out of his hands and opened it for him, "I hate to say it, but I don't know. There's so much evidence, but I can't connect the dots just yet. I don't know what you're-" just as she was handing the bottle back over, she stopped.

"There's blood on your hands," her mouth dropped.

At first, Stan couldn't see what she was talking about. Then, he shook his head to clear his vision, taking in that his hands were dripping not only with water, but also with something red.

"Why is there blood on your hands?" Leslie asked, eyes wide.

Stan paused. Why was there blood on his hands? When he tried to think about where and why this could have happened, his mind drew a blank. He couldn't remember anything.

"I got a concussion," he ended up saying.

Leslie pursed her lips nervously, "Yeah, well, I got a concussion, too. Three weeks ago when I was hit by a bus. My hands didn't bleed."

Stan tried to think harder. He tried to remember the last time he saw blood, and an image of tight plastic ties flashed through the back of his mind.

"Zip-ties?" he guessed, though he wasn't sure if that was the right answer.

Leslie gawked, "Wait. Wait, hold on. Did you just say zip-ties?"

Stan frowned. Was that the wrong answer?

Before Leslie could interrogate him any further, the other side door opened, and Kyle slid in the backseat next to Stan.

"Sorry for the wait," Kyle told Leslie, out of breath, as he clipped in his seatbelt.

"Don't apologize," Stan snapped, "I hate it."

Both Kyle and Leslie paused for a moment.

"Okay, Stan. I won't," Kyle said, before turning to the girl in the driver's seat, "Les, thanks so much for this, really. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. I owe you one."

"No, no, it's no big deal," she was still a little shaken, but she urged, "Hey, Ky, why don't you come sit up in the front with me?"

"No, it's okay," Kyle helped bring the bottle of water to Stan's lips, "I should stay back here."

"Are you sure?" Leslie was desperate, "I'm sure he'll be fine, just sit up here with me? Please?"

"No, it's cool. Really."

Leslie didn't seem convinced. But she turned around and buckled her seatbelt anyway, "Where to?"

"Not the hospital," Stan bucked forward.

Kyle assisted him back against the seat, "Not the hospital. Stan's house."

"We're just dropping him off?" Leslie asked, shifting the van's gear into drive and driving it out of the parking lot, onto the main road.

"No, I'll be staying with him," Kyle screwed the lid of the water bottle back on, "The first hour or so is always the roughest. He should be functioning semi-normally after that, but he still needs someone with him."

"Then why don't we just stay for the first hour, and then you come back home with me, Ky?" Leslie offered, looking at him through the rearview mirror.

"No, it's okay. I want to help him, he's my best friend."

"But he-"

"-Shit!" Kyle cried, taking Stan's dripping wet hands in his own, "Stan, why are you bleeding? Did you scrape yourself or something?"

He remembered the shower, and how he fell, scraping his knees on the tile.

"Yeah," Stan answered, not failing to notice Leslie glaring at him from the mirror.

Kyle groaned, strain creasing into his features. He was overworking himself with stress, but that didn't worry Stan in the slightest. Burdening himself with tautness was something integral to Kyle's character. He had a habit of catastrophizing everything, it was just one of his personal ticks.

So even though Kyle was tensing up pitifully, Stan smiled, because it meant Kyle was demonstrating his true self again.

Stan laughed with glee.

Leslie and Kyle shared a glance.

"Are you sure you don't want to come home with me, Ky?" Leslie implored, the van shifting a little in the lane, "We have a guest room. My parents won't mind. They won't even care that you're a guy, I've-" she stopped herself, clearing her throat, "-I've told them a few things… about you."

"I'm not suicidal," Kyle said, not even making eye contact with her.

"But-"

"-I'm staying with Stan."

The words were music to his ears. Not only was Kyle retaliating, fighting back, being himself, but on top of all of that, he was standing up for Stan. He was defending him, just like a super best friend should.

Stan laughed again.

That finally shut Leslie up. She didn't make another utterance the entire drive back to Stan's house. When she parked the van in front of his driveway, she turned around to look at the redhead.

"Ky, if you need anything- Anything at all, I can-"

"-Could you call Kenny for me?" Kyle interrupted, helping Stan with unbuckling his seatbelt, "Or text him, or dm him, or whatever. Let him know that we're here and we're okay. I sort of lost him in the chaos. I don't know where he went."

Leslie seemed disappointed, but she nodded anyway, "You got it."

Kyle finally managed to get Stan's seat belt off, and then turned to face the driver, "Thanks, Les, really. I'm not gonna forget this."

"Dude, really, this is nothing," she pleaded, "I just wish I could do more. I really miss you."

Kyle had to strain himself to not look at Stan, "Les, this isn't the place right now."

Leslie, however, did not hold herself back from shooting an ephemeral look at the quarterback. She sighed, "I know."

"Okay," Kyle patted Stan's shoulder, "I'm gonna get this big lug inside. I guess I'll see you around?"

"I guess," Leslie said.

She took a breath, before leaning in to kiss Kyle on the cheek. Chastely. In a humble, unobtrusive manner, she went to kiss him on the cheek, as friends do.

But he stopped her before she could, turning his face away, green eyes casted downward in shame.

Leslie pulled back worriedly, "Ky, I wasn't going to do anything. I don't like you like that, I only-"

"-Just don't," Kyle swallowed, "Just- Just don't. Please. You'll just make it harder on both of us."

The words made Leslie recoil. She was aghast for a moment, before she narrowed her eyes sharply at Stan, her jaw clenched tightly.

She was trying to be intimidating, but Stan could only laugh at her.

Kyle sadly smiled at him, "Everything's funny, huh, Mr. Funny Pants?" he turned to Leslie, "He'll be fine. The first hour is usually like this. He's already doing better, I swear."

He opened the side door, "Come on, Stan. Let's get you inside."

Stan slid out of the van with ease, finding that he was already starting to gain some confidence in his walking. Through the driver's side window, he could see Leslie fighting to make some kind of eye contact with Kyle, but the redhead was deliberately ignoring her. He got out of the van on shaky feet, said a small thank you one last time, before leading Stan up the porch steps while Leslie drove off in her van behind them.

Kyle was struggling to walk well, so Stan wrapped an arm around his waist to help him… which was ironic. It was difficult to tell who was helping who, and which one of them was the sick one and which one was the well one. Maybe they were a combination of both.

When they approached the front door, Kyle noticed the broken lock for the first time. He gagged, his throat lurching, his body hunching over, as if he were about to vomit.

"Kyle?" Stan panicked.

Kyle fixed himself, straining to brush it off, "No, I'm fine. Let's go in."

"Okay," Stan said as softly as he could. He ushered Kyle inside with his arm, before closing the door to the world behind him, protecting himself and Kyle from whatever lurked outside, and sealing them with whatever lurked inside.