Warnings for this chapter: violence, pinning, and a non-graphic reference to a past suicide attempt

As always, Kyle was right. The first hour of Stan's concussion was the worst.

After he managed to buck through the giggle phase, Stan had his nose to grindstone with the searing head pains. They didn't subside for about an hour, an hour he spent sitting down in the shower, Kyle right there at his side, giving him easy quizzes to test his brain.

After eating a nutrient-dense meal and taking a nap, Stan was starting to think clearly. He could only remember bits and pieces of the football game, and unfortunately, the few images he could remember were practically insignificant. But at least now, he could remember his middle name and he knew the difference between a plate and a bowl. And he took comfort in knowing that he would gradually remember more and more as time went on, so he didn't let it bother him.

It was pitiful, but he knew to be so calm because he's done this several times before. He didn't even remember what number concussion this was.

But he was feeling better, and he took comfort in that.

When he woke up from his nap, it was just after midnight. With a yawn and a few good stretches, he went downstairs to see Kyle relaxing on the sofa. At Stan's approach, Kyle shot up from the couch with a surprising amount of energy.

"Stan!" he greeted, "How do you feel?"

Stan smiled at Kyle's concern. It warmed his heart. It was supposed to be the other way around; Stan was supposed to be the one looking after Kyle. But the redhead's defiant insistence to care for his friend proved just how much he cared, and Stan loved it.

"I missed you," Stan smiled, going in for a hug.

Kyle returned the hug, but repeated his question in a cautious, slow manner, "I asked how you felt, Stan."

"Feel good," Stan replied, burying his face into the side of Kyle's head.

Kyle was just the right size for this. He was shorter than he should be for his age, but he was just tall enough for Stan's chin to rest perfectly atop of his head, and he was lean enough for Stan's arms to reach all the way around his sides as he held him close.

"That's great," Kyle praised, allowing the hug to continue for Stan's sake, "Pop quiz. What's five times three?"

Stan hesitated for only a second, "Fifteen."

"Good job. Looks like your head is starting to clear up a bit," Kyle said. He pulled back from Stan's arms, but Stan latched onto him and pulled him back in.

"Not yet," Stan said, hugging him tightly.

Kyle looked to the left, submitting, "...okay."

Stan leaned into the embrace, assuaged by the feeling of Kyle's ribs from beneath the bulk of the varsity sweater, and wonderfully ameliorated by the mere fact that Kyle was actually hugging back.

Stan had gone way too long without touching him. After Kyle confessed his sensitivities with physical contact, Stan had put in his damned best effort to avoid grabbing him and to keep his hands to himself. Like a dog, he had diligently followed that rule he made for himself all the way until now. He deserved it now, didn't he? He certainly held himself responsible long enough to earn at least a little comfort.

This was nice. Holding him was nice. This was the way it should be. This was, after all, the way it always had been.

When Stan was consumed by the darkest depths of his depression, he reached a point so low that therapy did nothing for him. His late-middle school through early-high school years were overwhelmed with solitude, alcohol, and self-harm. His family had done little to help him, too; his dad and sister had barely cared and his mom had been just as depressed as he was that she couldn't help him if he tried. School friends barely affected him too; not even Kenny or Cartman's attempts to help reached him.

But even at his lowest point, Kyle was there with him.

His entire life, Kyle was the one to cast out the lifesaver to a damsel in distress, even at risk to himself, so it was no surprise that he was more determined than anyone else in town to get his best friend back on track. Being the stubborn little bastard he was, he never gave up. He fought, and he fought, and he fought until Stan got better.

He answered all of Stan's calls, replied to all of his texts, even at insane hours of the night. He let Stan confide everything in him-even horrible, gut-wrenching things that Stan was too afraid to tell his own therapist- and he held onto those secrets like a safebox. He made himself present every time Stan needed him, even cutting class on occasion, just to be there at his side.

Kyle, the school-savvy student whose dream it was to have perfect attendance for all twelve years, cut class for his best friend's sake too many times to count.

Through Kyle, Stan was able to find a strength he couldn't find in himself. He found a wall to bounce back off, a reason to get up again when he fell.

Kyle had been there to replace his beer bottles with water bottles. He had been there to turn on the lightswitch when it was time to drag Stan out of bed. He had been there to talk him out of every suicide attempt, and he had been there to hold his hand when things got scary.

Kyle had always been there. And Kyle would always be here; Stan would make sure of that.

"Do you wanna do something?" Kyle offered, breaking Stan's train of thoughts.

He rested his cheek against Kyle's red curls, "Like what?"

"Anything under the sun, dude," Kyle shrugged into the hug, "Just as long as neither of us strain ourselves."

"TV?"

"It rots the brain, Stan," Kyle chuckled softly, "I don't think you need any more of that right now. How about a game? We could play a game."

Stan's stomach growled, "We could eat."

"Didn't you just eat an hour ago?"

"Yeah. But I'm hungry. And so are you," Stan said doubtlessly. Releasing the hug, he took Kyle by the wrist and took him to the kitchen to get something to eat.

Kyle simply followed like a lamb. Stan could tell that he was holding onto some reserved emotions for Stan's sake, but he pretended to be oblivious.

Stan opened the fridge and peered through its contents, "Wanna make a salad?"

One of his wrists still in Stan's hold, Kyle wrapped his free arm around his stomach, "Um. Aren't vegetables, like, the hardest food group to digest?"

"I'm going to have a salad," Stan shrugged, taking various vegetables out of the crisper drawer, "What do you want? Broth?"

Kyle gave an embarrassed nod.

Stan let go of his wrist now so he could move around the kitchen, collecting salad-making materials and grabbing a box of chicken stock along the way. When he went to look for a knife to slice the lettuce, he found himself lost and confused. He paused.

"Stan."

"Hm?" he looked over his shoulder.

"Other drawer," Kyle pointed out.

"Oh," Stan felt embarrassed, too, "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Kyle said, sitting down in a chair at the table, "It's not your fault you have a concussion. It was number 86's fault. That gorilla-ass dickhead shouldn't have been playing. He looked like he was held back in school for at least twenty years. I want to go beat up that asshole, I swear."

"No," Stan swallowed a lump in his throat, knife poised in his hand, "You'd hurt yourself."

Kyle sighed, resting his head on his hand, "I know. But a guy can dream, right?"

Stan didn't answer. He started to cut up the vegetables, satisfied by the way the action of slicing and portioning was training his brain to focus. He organized the vegetables by size and color, everything in his head clicking together to make sense just nicely. This concussion seemed like it would have a quick recovery. He was already starting to feel a lot better.

All was well in the Marsh household until the phone rang. The high-pitched noise assaulted Stan's ears, making his head hurt. He brought his hands to his ears and whined, wincing at the searing jab at the side of his skull.

"Hey, it's okay," Kyle soothed, he got up as quickly as he could and limped over to the living room to retrieve Stan's phone.

But Stan stopped him before he could get too far. He held out his arm, halting him, "'s not my phone."

"What?" Kyle asked.

With the sound breaching his ears and his head pounding violently, Stan struggled to piece together what he was trying to say, "I remember… the sound. 's different. That's not my phone, 's the home."

Kyle was quick to catch on, "Oh, that's the home phone ringing?"

Through his pain, Stan managed a nod. Kyle rewarded him with a pat on the shoulder.

"Hey, I'll go answer it. I don't want you to get strained or stressed or anything," Kyle said, "You go back to your salad."

When Kyle picked up the phone from the kitchen wall, Stan was washed over with immediate relief. The noise was gone, and he could think clearly again. He contentedly returned to portioning his peppers, slicing them perfectly to avoid the seeds in the middle.

Kyle stood leaning against the wall, the receiver in his ear, as he listened to the speaker on the other line. He stood that way for only a few seconds before Stan heard him click the phone back in its place.

"That was quick," Stan pointed out.

"Yup."

"Who would call at this hour?" Stan asked, remembering that it was just past midnight.

"Ike."

Stan dropped the knife against the counter.

Kyle paid him no mind. He limped out of the kitchen into the living room, where he started to search around the couch cushions and under the pillows.

Something about the action sent off alarm bells in Stan's head.

"Kyle," he followed him into the living room, wariness settling in his gut, "What're you doing?"

"Ike only called to tell me one thing," Kyle said. He found the television remote wedged between two couch cushions and pried it out before explaining further, "He told me to turn on the news."

Before Stan could stop him, Kyle aimed the remote at the screen and pressed the power button. He flipped through a few channels before finding the local news station, where a female anchor was midway through a sentence.

"-at the South Park High arena. Authorities have yet to reveal the student's name considering that he is a minor, and will not release it until a cause of death is confirmed. Investigators suspect suicide, following an assault that landed on him during a party a week prior, but the local police department is still on the case, after having received an anonymous tip on extra details. As for the suspected suicide itself-"

-As the spokeswoman went on speaking, an image of a young man filtered onscreen. A perfectly handsome young man. He had suave dark skin, tanned elegantly by the sun, and a pearl-white smile as he looked at the camera. His eyes were hazel and complimented his dark hair well, under the lighting of a professional photo, dated a few months prior.

He didn't have a single blemish on his body.

And Kyle recognized him.

Kyle had to sit down on the sofa, covering his hand with his mouth as he stared up in horror at the screen. He shook his head slowly, sadly, his teeth starting to nervously chew at the fingers over his mouth.

"Dude," Kyle let out a strangled whisper, his eyes glued to the screen, "I fucking knew that guy..."

Stan couldn't bring himself to comfort him on the couch. He stood where he was in the kitchen, his fists clenching and unclenching.

"He was the guy who danced with me," Kyle said through the side of his mouth, his words muttered and malformed, biting down on his fingers, "God… suicide. That's just awful. Oh God, that's terrible. And in such a public space, the poor kid…"

"Kyle," Stan said, not knowing what else to say.

"Shit, we were literally dancing together, we were kissing, he seemed happy," Kyle was now gnawing and biting on his fingers almost feverishly, "God, if I had known he was going through shit I would've helped him. He never said anything to me about what he was going through. If I had only known…"

"Kyle," Stan snapped with intensity now, "Don't hurt yourself. Stop it."

The redhead took his hands away from his face guiltily, "Sorry…" he sniffed, "God, that's just awful. What do you think happened to 'im, Stan?"

The question flew over his head, "Hm?"

Kyle sniffed, wiping his nose, before he repeated what he asked with more caution, "I asked what you think about all of this."

"What do I think?"

"Yeah," Kyle absentmindedly started to chew on his pinky finger, not even realizing he was doing it, "B-But don't strain your head thinking or anything, I was just wondering. This is so sad."

Stan looked up at the TV screen, where they were now showing images of an electrical cord.

"I think that suicide should never be people's first assumption," Stan said, "It doesn't do the person any courtesy."

Kyle looked at him peculiarly.

Stan shrugged, "I'm just saying. You gotta respect the dead, right? Give 'em a little dignity. Don't rule it a suicide until you have proof."

Kyle opened his mouth to say something, but then the woman onscreen said something that snared away his attention.

"-ody was found in the visitors' locker room in between ten and eleven at night. As stated earlier, authorities are still investigating, but if you have any information, you are urged to call the number listed below-"

"Wait," Kyle froze. His green eyes were darting back and forth over the screen in vehement contemplation.

"Kyle, what's wrong?" Stan allowed himself to enter the living room now, opting to take a squat on the floor in front of him.

"Stan, you were outside the visitors' locker room when I found you," Kyle muttered, nibbling on his fingers in a panic, "Did- Did you hear anything? See anything? I know with your concussion, your senses were probably numbed out, but did you-"

"-Kyle!" Stan reached out and grabbed him by the wrists, jerking his hands away from his mouth, scolding, "I said don't do that. Stop it. Right now."

Kyle winced at the pressure exerted on his already-sensitive wrists, "Sorry."

Stan let out a strained sigh, "For the record, I didn't hear or see anything at all. I don't even know how I ended up over there."

It was just then that Stan realized Kyle wasn't even paying him any attention. He was looking peculiarly at Stan's hands wrapped around his wrists, scrutinizing his palms.

"What's wrong?" Stan asked.

"Your hands were bleeding."

Stan tilted his head to the side, "They were?"

"You said you scraped them," Kyle said. He slowly, methodically took his wrists out from Stan's grasp and turned Stan's hands over in his own. Stan watched as Kyle gaped down at his smooth, unmarred palms.

"Kyle?"

Kyle pressed his hands to his forehead, desperate in his attempts to hold himself together, "You didn't. I swear you didn't. You couldn't've. You- You're unwell, you're upset, but you're not- You're not capable of-... that. You- You're a good person, Stan, you're a good person…"

The redhead was working himself up now. But Stan could tell that he wasn't stressing himself out in the way he normally does, the way integral to his character. Instead, he was overwhelming himself in a terrified tremor, his mind and body both agitating in intensity.

In the back of Stan's mind, he remembered the observation he made a few days ago, how he had noticed that Kyle's emotions were an oscillating ebb and flow that took direction from Stan. He had observed that when Stan was angry, Kyle went compliant, and when Stan was happy, Kyle was ecstatic, and etcetera.

That gave him a tenuous idea. In spite of Kyle's present strain, Stan forced himself to smile. He made himself look mirthful, smiling from ear to ear and going relaxed in his body language, hoping Kyle would take a hint and become happy himself.

"Kyle, don't strain yourself like that," Stan soothed as pleasantly and lightly as he could, "You're stressing yourself out. Stop it. I don't like it."

Startling Stan to the core, Kyle did not respond the way he anticipated. He did just the opposite. He drew in on himself in a panic, staring at Stan with wide, lily-livered eyes.

"Kyle," Stan strained himself to smile even more, holding onto Kyle's arms to urge himself further, "Why're you freaking out? You'd better stop."

He could feel Kyle trembling in his hold when he muttered, "Stan, please tell me you didn't. Please, please tell me you didn't. I'm- I'm just paranoid, right? I'm just hysterical. I'm just hysterical. You didn't- You didn't actually-"

"-You're hysterical," Stan confirmed, smiling so wide that his cheeks were aching, "You're hysterical, you're stressing yourself out, and you should be happy right now."

"Happy?" Kyle's breath hitched on the word, "Why- Why the fuck should I be happy, Stan? Give me one logical reason why I should be happy right now."

Stan thought again about how Kyle's feelings were supposed to reflect whatever he wanted.

"Because I told you to."

"..."

"..."

With little warning, Kyle's throat lurched. He gagged twice, his body convulsing forward several times.

Stan knew what was going to happen. He leaned forward, trying to comfort him, but Kyle wouldn't take it.

He shot up from the sofa with speed Stan didn't know he possessed. He rushed past Stan and made straight for the bathroom, vomiting the contents of his entire stomach into the toilet.

When Stan cautiously approached, he didn't fail to notice the horrible red color that tinged the rivers of stomach acid as Kyle retched again, his feeble frame lurching forward.

"Kyle," Stan almost choked on the name, "You-... I think you must have torn some lining in your stomach. You're bleeding… From the inside."

When Kyle finished his convulsing, he leaned over the toilet like a dangling puppet on strings. He coughed a little, wiping blood and bile away from his face with the sleeves of Clyde's sweater, before a shudder wracked his entire body.

"I warned you…" Kyle said so softly he almost whispered it.

"Kyle?" Stan stepped in closer.

"I fucking warned you, Stan," Kyle whimpered, a watery drop of blood rolling down his chin. He wiped it away in shame, "I warned you that I couldn't take any more. That- That if you did one more thing like this, that I-..."

Stan reached forward to comfort him, but Kyle pulled away.

"Don't," he cried, pressing against the bathroom wall, "Don't touch me, please! I'm- I have to- I can't stay here. I have to leave. I have to go home."

Bewildered and heartbroken, Stan shook his head, "No, you don't."

"I have to go home, Stan," Kyle shuddered, "I want to go home. I- I'm going home. I'm not staying here."

"-Kyle, you can't go home. You know what they're going to do to you there."

Kyle wrapped his arms around himself, "I don't care. I'm going home. I want to go home, I-" he sobbed, ducking his head in shame, "-I want my mom, Stan."

Stan was mortified. He stared at Kyle with his eyes wide, his gut clenching. Kyle wasn't acting right at all, and that worried the hell out of him. He felt the pace of his heart beating speed up because of worry alone.

Kyle made a move to step past him, but Stan stuck out his arm to block him.

Kyle shook his head in agony, "Don't do this, dude. I thought you were better than this! I really thought you were getting better!"

"Kyle, you're so confused," Stan said, his heart breaking as the words left his mouth, "I'm so sorry, I really thought your confusion healed up. I guess it didn't. But you can't go home. They're going to abuse you, Kyle, you can't go home!"

"It's safer there than it is here!"

"How? I've never hurt you!"

"You fucking delusional brute! Yes, you have! Many times, damn it! I excused it 'cause I thought you were getting better, but you just-! You just keep getting worse and worse!"

"The same can be said about you, Kyle!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Kyle screeched, his hoarse voice breaking as anguish martyred his whole body, "You think I don't know how sick I am?! I've only kept quiet for your sake! I tried to be selfless, 'cause I thought I owed you! I thought since you were being selfless for me, I could be selfless for you, like super best fr-"
-His rant was disrupted by a rack of coughing. He threw himself over the toilet in preparation, but he didn't throw up, he just coughed painfully.

Stan approached him now, despite Kyle's warnings to stay away. He wrapped his arms around the unbruised safe spot of Kyle's back, holding him as he heaved phlegm and blood into the toilet bowl, his eyes watering.

When Kyle's coughing fit ended, he lifted his head shakily, "B-But you were never selfless, were you? Y-You were only ever selfish. This whole fucking time, you were- you were just trying to keep me."

"Safe," Stan corrected, locking his arms around him tighter, "I was trying to keep you safe. And I still am."

"No, you aren't. Everything only gets worse the more time I spend with you, dude," Kyle grimaced, his voice wavering, "Not just for me. For you, too. You- You're sicker than I am, Stan, and that's fucking saying something."

"I'm not sick," Stan swallowed, "You're sick."

"You killed somebody, Stan."

Stan wrapped his arms around him tighter.

"You- You killed somebody…" Kyle gagged, "Oh God. God. HaShem…"
Kyle let out a guttural sob, and then proceeded to pray for daat and teshuva in Stan's hold, the only word Stan understood being the word for God; "HaShem, HaShem, HaShem, HaShem."

"Kyle?"

"I-... I never knew you were capable of doing that, Stan. I never would've guessed. I've spent my whole life with you and I never would've... You- You're a friend to everybody. Everybody loves you, Stan," Kyle trembled, "Why- How could you do something like that?"

Stan tried to answer, but his throat was sealed shut.

So Kyle spoke, "He didn't deserve it. He didn't do anything wrong."

"He could have hurt you."

"You hurt me."

"...I don't."

"How could you think that, dude? How could you possibly even begin to think that?"

"Because I love you. I love you. I can't hurt you."

"...Let me go. I'm leaving now."

Stan locked his arms tighter around him, pressing his knees down against the backs of Kyle's legs to pin him to the floor, "No."

Kyle spat in Stan's face, his saliva tinted red with blood.

Stan wasn't intimidated in the least. He just let the disgusting substance roll down his face as he held his ground, "I'm not letting you go back there."

Kyle strained to get up under Stan's exerting pressure, but made little progress.

Stan had him completely pinned. He could feel Kyle struggling to break free, and it broke his heart to know that this pitiful skirmish was Kyle at his best. He was so weak that even as he was directing all of his strength into escaping, he was doing next to nothing for himself.

It occurred to Stan that if Kyle keeps physically tormenting himself this way, he's eventually going to hurt himself more than he already has.

So in an act of gracious pity, Stan let him up from the ground.

When Kyle could stand, he wrestled himself out of Stan's arms and tried once more to run out of the bathroom.

But again, Stan stopped him before he could. He was willing to stop Kyle from paining himself, but he was not willing to let him imprison himself back at the Broflovski household.

He knocked him down to the floor, watching in satisfaction as Kyle slammed down against the hardwood, his hands doing nothing to break his fall.

But he knew that Kyle was still as stubborn as a mule, he knew he would keep on fighting, so it didn't surprise him when Kyle started to scramble across the floor, half crawling, half running, as he struggled for the front door a dozen feet away.

Stan yanked him back by the boot around his broken ankle, "Kyle, stop fighting and just get back here! I'm not going to let you get tortured there!"

Kyle whipped around on the floor, trying to pull himself in the other direction as Stan tugged on his boot. His wrangling doing practically nothing for him, Kyle called out in a desperate plea, "I'm not going forever, just- just let me go now! I'll come back, okay?! I'll get you the help you need and come back when you're better! Just let me go now!"

Stan gave another pull, Kyle's body easily sliding across the floor toward him, "Stop it! You're only going to hurt yourself!"

"Stan!" Kyle cried. In a moment of frenzy, Kyle unbuckled the latches around his boot, freeing himself so the lighter cast was the only thing around his ankle. Then he scrambled to the other side of the room, pushing aside the front door with the broken lock, and tumbling down the porch steps and down the driveway in a disordered attempt at escape.

Just as Stan caught up to him, he deterred. He watched as Kyle, ailing and straining from the physical exertion on his poor body, swayed back and forth as he struggled to stand. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted backwards.

Stan caught him before he could hit the sidewalk.

It was a temporary blackout-the kind of vertigo experienced simply by too much sudden exertion- and Kyle's eyes fluttered open seconds later as he gasped for air. When he looked upwards to see that he was once again being held in Stan's arms, he uttered a pitiful groan, his brow furrowing in frustration.

"I hate this fucking body," he muttered, nostrils flaring.

Stan felt his stomach do a somersault, "Kyle…"

"I hate this stupid, sickly body. It makes me such a problem child. Every day, I can feel it dying around me and I hate it. I hate my body. I hate it. I hate it. I-"

-Stan shoved his hand over Kyle's mouth, "Shut up! Stop that!"

"Kyle?"

The sound of Ike Broflovski's voice carried through the cool air, catching Stan completely by surprise to see him standing at the edge of his driveway, confused and disturbed by the sight in front of him.

If Stan didn't know any better, he would say that Ike looked just like any other little kid. He was lily-like, placid, even in his noticeable state of disturbance he seemed small and gentle.
But Stan knew better. Out of suspicion, He locked his arms around Kyle.

But Kyle wouldn't take it. He sat up straight in the quarterback's arms, calling out, "Ike! Ike, where the hell have you been?"

"Home. And I think it's about time you came home, too," Ike replied. As he stepped in closer, the moonlight spilled over to illuminate him, a childlike expression of naive encouragement on his face. He held out his hand towards Kyle, "I'm here to take you home, Kyle. I've missed you."

"Me too," Kyle said, trying to break out of his prison to take his hand, "Ike, take me home, I want to go home."

"I will," Ike said. But as he tried to take a step forward, Stan only squeezed his arms around Kyle tighter.

"Shit! Stan, stop it!" Kyle cried, squirming around with more intensity now. His arms were bound to his sides and his legs were useless, but of course, Kyle found a way.
He took Stan's hand in his teeth, biting with full force.

But Stan didn't even flinch.

Ike seemed impressed.

However, Kyle was horrified. He tensed up in his confinement, "Ike! Ike, don't just fucking stand there, fucking do something!"

As Ike realized that Stan was not going to let go, he backed away. He straightened his shirt, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves when he said, "It's alright, Kyle. I don't need to."

"Ike, what're you-"

"-The police are on their way. They'll take care of everything," Ike crossed his arms over his chest, "Oh, and they'll actually heed to what I have to say this time. I have proof now."

Kyle stopped wrestling, and Stan pressed his chin down on Kyle's shoulder to hold him still.
While Kyle couldn't find the words to question further, Stan took the opportunity to speak up, his chin digging into the tender flesh of Kyle's shoulder blade as he demanded, "What do you mean 'the police are on their way?' What are you talking about, creep?"

"I gave them an anonymous tip claiming that you were responsible for the death of that kid from uptown," Ike said, scarily calm in his demeanour, "I also provided video footage of you entering and leaving the locker rooms directly at the time of his death. I gave them every reason to believe the truth."

Kyle's jaw dropped, "Ike- Ike, tell me you didn't have anything to do with his death… Swear to God and tell me you didn't have anything to do with him."

"In truth, I had no idea Marsh would go as far as he did. I can assure you I never meant for him to die, but then again, it works out better for us, doesn't it? Since now Marsh will go to prison for life and he'll never kidnap you again, Kyle," Ike said, ending his statement with a strange sentiment of tenderness in his tone.

His sweetness went right over Kyle's head. He trembled in Stan's arms, his green eyes aflame, "Ike. What did you do?"

"What I had to do."

"What did you do?"

"My only plan was to get Marsh out of the picture, and you're welcome, I've practically already done that. As I've said, the police are on their way to arrest him," Ike was growing irritated now, his speech crisp and direct, "I didn't do anything but set the scene for act two."

Maybe it was because of his concussion that Stan had no idea what Ike was insinuating.

Maybe it was because Kyle was smarter than what he was given credit for that he caught on to exactly what Ike was insinuating.

"Oh God," he choked, "You set this whole thing up, didn't you?"

Ike bit his lip impatiently, "Let me reiterate that I had no idea Marsh would take the life of another. I only thought an assault would occur, and that I would gain enough footage of the event to be able to put him behind bars for a while. That's all."

"Player number 86, from the North Park team," Kyle dared to charge, "He was one of yours, wasn't he?"

"He was one of the arrangements I made, yes, among other things."

Stan was finally starting to understand, the cogs in his brain turning little by little, "The… charity."

Both Broflovskis looked at him expectantly.

"The charity," Stan's throat went so dry he thought he was about to dry-heave, "The charity was for child trafficking victims. Kenny said someone changed it last second."

Ike shrugged, "I had to lure you in somehow. Imagine all that work going to waste if you didn't even bother to show up."

Stan felt Kyle hiccup in his arms. When he looked down to see if he was okay, he noticed that Kyle's face was whiter than the moon above them. He was as pale as Banquo's ghost, tears lining the edges of his reddened eyes.

"Ike," Kyle's voice broke, "You knew?"

A barn owl screamed somewhere in the distance.

For a moment Ike looked like he was caught off guard. It seemed as though someone finally managed to topple him off his high and mighty throne of conceited indifference. His mouth hung open, but failed to produce any sound. His obscure eyes shifted between Stan and Kyle in a strenuous effort to conjure something to say.

But that was only for a moment. He recovered soon enough.

"Kyle," Ike started, his calm voice laced with a tenuous fear, "We can discuss that later. When we're home, when you're safe from him, we can discuss that. For now, let us please concentrate on getting you away from Marsh."

Stan didn't raise his protective chin from Kyle's shoulder blade as he charged, "No, I want to know, too. You knew about the pictures, didn't you? I'll bet you were in on the whole secret, huh, creep?"

"Marsh, you are seriously in denial if you think you possess the right to challenge me about my brother's safety."

"Oh, shut up!"

"Short-tempered, are we?"

"He's not even your brother!"

Stan could feel Kyle hiccup again in his arms when he said in a shaky voice, "Ike, he didn't mean it. He really didn't mean it. Stan just- He doesn't feel well."

"Oh, he meant it," Ike's tone was as cold and crisp as the frostbitten night around them, "And you have no right to defend him. He's a dangerous, impulsive miscreant capable of manslaughter and you deserve better than him."

Stan's chin must have pressed into a pressure point on Kyle's shoulder blade, because seemingly out of nowhere, Kyle mewled out a pained cry, and his eyes rolled halfway backwards, before he was able to fix himself upright.
Now weakened after the assault on his shoulder blade, Kyle swayed back and forth in Stan's arms, "Ike, hold on… Gi'me a moment, hold on. Did-... Did you know? Did you actually know?"

Ike went frozen solid, but his silence said a thousand words.

"Son of a bitch," Stan muttered, his grip around Kyle now stronger than it's ever been.

Kyle gave a cough in his confinement, his gut and chest jerking forward. As he coughed, a glob of blood flew from his mouth, splattering down onto the pavement.

Ike's stoic mask was gone. He stared with raw terror at the dark red droplets on the sidewalk. Fervent fear now bristling off his words, he urged, "Kyle, he is going to kill you if you stay with him."
Something in his dark eyes shifted, "Forget about waiting on the police. I'm taking you home."

In a swift, calculated move, Ike shot forward and tore Stan's arms away.

At his release, Kyle immediately collapsed to the ground, hunching over himself as he gasped for air.

But neither of the two noticed him. Stan fired back with a nasty punch to Ike's gut, making him double over.

The younger barely had any time to recover before Stan took advantage of his crumpled posture, grabbing his shoulders and hurling him down against the pavement. Just after Ike was thrown down on the sidewalk, Stan reached for the gasping redhead beside him.

"Kyle, I don't know what the hell Ike is planning, but you can bet I'm not going to let you go back to him," Stan explained as quickly as he could, but he spoke so aggressively it must have sounded like he was yelling. He reached down to scoop him up off the pavement, but Ike intervened.

Catching Stan completely by surprise, Ike roundhouse-kicked him in the back of his knees, sending his kneecaps to collide directly with the concrete.
The pain was so blatant and so sudden that Stan couldn't even utter a cry.

Ike didn't soften. He rushed past Stan to his brother, yanking him up right by his armpits, "I know you don't have a lot of strength right now, but however much you've got, use it!"

Kyle moved along like a ragdoll in Ike's arms, but not because he was unconscious.

No, Kyle looked more awake than he had in a week or longer. His green eyes were wide open as if he had been slapped into focus, their gaze flitting in between Ike and Stan, a painfully overwhelmed look on his face.

Stan knew what that look meant, and he didn't like it. It meant confusion. Kyle was in a heightened state of perplexed panic; he didn't know who of the two he was supposed to go home with.

Stan strained himself to reason, "Kyle, you can't seriously be confused right now! You know you have to stay with me. You can't go back to him!"

"You're wrong, Marsh," Ike snarled, tugging Kyle away down the sidewalk, "You psychopathic, manipulative fuckwad, you've damaged him to the point where he can barely function! If he's confused, it's your fault!"

"You're a creep!" Stan reared, ready to hurl a punch at Ike, but he stopped himself out of fear of hitting Kyle-whose body directly blocked Ike's.

"Right, I'm the creep," Ike somehow managed to roll his eyes, even during the severity of the moment, "Even though I've never kidnapped, bruised, cut, starved, or brainwashed him, I'm the creep!"

Kyle was glancing in between them wildly now. Stan could see his narrow chest rising and falling rapidly, his entire body shaking as he struggled to breathe, Ike tugging him down the sidewalk all the while.

Stan felt his heart lurch at the sight, "Ike, you're scaring him. Let him come back to me. I'll take good care of him."

Ike actually laughed. He laughed madly, wildly, tossing his head back as he bellowed, "That's hilarious, you know that?! And I thought McCormick was supposed to be the funny one!"

"Who said my name?"

When Kenny jogged up from the far side of the street, Stan didn't get any calmer. If anything, his anxiety intensified.
Kenny stopped in his tracks in the middle of the street, stiffening at the sight of Ike yanking his brother down the sidewalk, Stan aggressively on their heels, and Kyle on the verge of hyperventilating, his struggles to escape doing nothing for him. Kenny panicked at the sight, taking a moment to process it all.
But he snapped himself out of it soon enough.

He was direct now, more assertive than Stan had ever seen him before, when he said, "I got a text from Leslie. She told me to stop by, said she thought Kyle was in danger and that Stan-" his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, "-What the hell is going on here? Kylie-B, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?!" Kyle shrieked, the hoarse pain in his voice breaking Stan's heart tenfold.

Ike gave another yank, "No, you don't. And if you're even considering going back to Marsh, then you're more ill than you lo-"

-Breaking his own rule of no-grabbing, Stan shot forward and grabbed Kyle by the square of his shoulders to wrestle him free from Ike's hold, "He's even sicker if he thinks you'll give him any sympathy, Ike!"

Kyle kicked and shouted against both of them, "You talk like you're giving me a choice in this, but you're not!" he released an animal-like whimper when Stan resorted to pulling on his marred wrists, "You're not! You're not, you're not, you're not!"

Kenny went on offense now, trying to buck Ike and Stan off, "Guys! Guys, stop it! Fucking shit, look what you're doing to him!"

Kenny managed to wrestle Ike off after punching him in the face, but as always, Stan couldn't be pried away. While Kenny and Ike were tussling with each other, Stan hoisted Kyle up against his chest and started to run up the sidewalk back to his house.

He made it halfway up the driveway before simultaneously, all at once, he felt Ike kick his knees, Kenny slam an elbow into his back, and Kyle whack the back of his head against Stan's jaw. It was the combined efforts of all three of them that knocked Stan down to the driveway, Kyle falling down along with him-only to be crushed and trapped in place under Stan's weight.

Kenny and Ike, immediately realizing their horrible mistake, scrambled to pull Stan up from the pavement. But Stan wouldn't let himself be raised up; he wouldn't let them take Kyle away.

Taking advantage of his fallen position, Stan pinned Kyle's entire body down to the driveway, his herculean strength bearing down on his limbs.
When Kenny almost managed to knock him off, Stan opted to bear down on Kyle's back, the place that he knew was already bruised beyond belief. The agonizing sounds Kyle made in response were enough to make a grown man cry, Kenny and Ike practically going ballistic in their efforts to tear Stan away from him.

Stan knew it was cruel, but he couldn't let Kyle go away again.

They went on like that for God knows how long: Ike fighting to take Kyle away, Kenny wrangling despite his desire for peace, Kyle breaking into hysterics trying to escape, and Stan refusing to yield, all four of them screaming and assailing each other in the arctic bite of the night.

It wasn't until Kyle started coughing up blood again that Stan allowed himself to let go of him.

But instead of immediately fleeing to freedom, Kyle curled up on the pavement, wringing and contorting over himself as he heaved up a vicious combination of blood, phlegm, and stomach acid, tears streaming down his ghost-white face.

The barn owl in the night sky cried desperately now, screeching a song laden with agony.

Kenny was at his side first. As Kyle was hunched over heaving and coughing uncontrollably, Kenny moved in to hold his hand and pin back his red hair from his face. Licking his lips in a hushed panic, Kenny asked, "Kylie? Babe, you okay?"

When Kyle only responded by gasps and hacks, Kenny turned to the others looming over him, "Guys, why's he doing this? What's wrong with him?"

"Marsh must have crushed his lungs," Ike crossed his arms, "Maybe caused some internal bleeding."

"I didn't!" Stan cried, horrified at the accusation, "He just threw up again and tore some stomach lining!"

"You expect us to believe that? After you committed manslaughter?"

Kenny gaped, "What the fuck?!"

"I didn't!" Stan shouted, "Ike set me up! He's the one responsible!"

"Oh shit, Stan!"

"It's Ike's fault!"

"Right, because you can never take the blame, can you, Marsh?"

"But it is your fault!"

"Didja actually, Stan?! Shitfuck, you think you know a guy!"

"Kenny!"

"Watch it, McCormick!"

"What'd I do?!"

"You guys just really hate me, don't you?"

It was Kyle who said that. His voice was abused beyond repair at this point, so all he would mewl out was a whisper, but even despite the tooth and nail screaming and fighting, all three of them heard what he said.

"Kylie-B..." Kenny exclaimed softly.
He had a split lip with blood dripping down his chin, but that seemed to be the smallest of any of their injuries. Still holding back Kyle's hair from his retching episode, Kenny looked at him with wide, regretful eyes when he assured, "No, baby, no. Everyone here-" he stopped and corrected himself, "-I love you. I don't hate you, no babe."

"I love you," Stan said, his gut twisting and clenching, "Why would you think otherwise? Kyle, you- You've gotten really self-conscious lately and it's not like you at all. Stop it."

Kenny and Ike prepared themselves for more fighting at Stan's harshness, but Kyle didn't even flinch.

He just sat there with a glazed-over stare, utterly damaged and dismal, "You all hate me. I've done nothing but be nice to all of you, but you reward me like this. All it takes is a little injury and a little illness for you to treat me like this…"

Maybe it was due to Stan's concussion that in that second, in the middle of Kyle's capstone, he stopped to remember something.
He thought back to the night Kyle came to him when Ike won valedictorian, and how he confessed that he couldn't take much more, that one more abuse would break him. Then he remembered Kyle vomiting red-tinged stomach acid before trying to break out of Stan's house and run away.

"Why-... Why do you hate me, Stan?"

This had to be it. This was his breaking point.

Stan dropped down on his knees, still sore and bruising from the struggle with Ike. He crawled up the pavement, one hand outstretched, as he reached forward to comfort him. Kenny got defensive in his posture around Kyle, holding his hand and hair in a protective passion. But Kenny couldn't stop Stan from gently cupping his hand to the side of Kyle's face.

Kyle screamed.

He unleashed a horrible, agonizing, inhuman scream of fear and pain that not only overtook him, but completely consumed him. Kyle was screaming like nothing Stan had ever witnessed before, it was entirely devastating in all senses of the word; the screaming was something so heartbreaking it was terrifying, and something so terrifying it was heartbreaking.

Stan crouched there completely at loss while Kyle practically went mad with fear and hopelessness right in front of him. Even after he drew his hand away, Kyle couldn't be settled. Kenny tried desperately to still him while Stan and Ike were paralyzed in shock.

The loud noises became too much to bear, and Stan felt a stab in the side of his skull, making him cringe in pain. But it wasn't the screaming that induced his concussive pain, it was sirens. Stan saw a flash of red and blue, and felt a pair of handcuffs slap around his wrists. The next thing he knew, four policemen were detaining him, their combined strengths the only thing managing to hold him still. Had there been one less cop present, Stan would have been able to break free, take Kyle, and run. Instead, he was thrown in the back of a police car and read his rights for the second time this month.

Through the tinted window, he could see Ike explaining things to an officer while holding a pain in his shoulder. Just beyond him, Stan could see Kenny hopping into the back of an ambulance, the doors shutting behind him. But he couldn't see Kyle anywhere, not at all.

And just that, only that, the mere fact that he couldn't see his super best friend, was what broke his heart for the last time.