A/N: Forgot to do this earlier so Stan will have a 2-part chapter condensed into this one chapter, p1 takes place before the Wendy chapter, p2 takes place afterwards.

- Stan [p1] -

Absently, he swirled the liquid in the glass bottle he was holding by its neck. The liquid inside was still super cold, bright orange, and reeked of alcohol. It was one of his favorite drinks, a Smirnoff Ice Screwdriver, the alcohol content was relatively low, it tasted really good, just slightly more bitter than actual orange juice. It was his third one of the night, and the night was young yet, it was barely 2 am. By that count, he was doing well though, it was only the third and it was still just 2.

He had been drinking since he was about ten years old. It had been awful, at one point, but he had found another program, not AA, one that taught to help you limit your drinking, not abstain. He didn't attend their meetings anymore, but he still used what he had learned. Most of the time. He didn't get trashed anymore, well, maybe once or twice a year, not every week like he had a few years before.

He had been in therapy for a while, off and on, for a few years..., he paused to really think, how many years had he been in therapy?
Seven. He had been in therapy, off and on, for seven years. He held the bottle in both hands, gazing down at it, but not really seeing it.

Seven fucking years. And just what did he have to show for those years? Really. What did he have? A handful of coping skills? Maybe. If that. Two, he actively used. One, if not entirely the way it was meant to be used... Other things he had learned in therapy rattled around in his brain, but for some reason, he didn't feel like the lessons intended there stuck the way they were supposed to. Like they were there, in his head(sometimes), but it didn't seem like they truly sunk in. He still made the cognitive blunders, he paused again, thinking harder, squeezing the bottle in his hands, feeling its coldness.

That wasn't entirely true. He was a vastly different person now than he was seven years ago. When he first went to therapy. But was he better? That was a very good question. But another, perhaps better question, would be is better an attainable and sustainable state? That would be a good question for a future therapist, if he ever got off his ass and called the office to see about seeing someone again.

Gripping the bottle firmly in one hand, he raised it to his lips for a drink.
He returned the bottle to its previous position, between both hands as he stared down at it and his arms. They were pale, he had lost his childish tan from sports when he entered high school, his friend group, while still including Kenny, had shifted to the goths, Wendy had broken up with him for good, and he was crushed. He was still drinking pretty heavily by then, Kyle had all but abandoned him, saying he needed to be around more positive people. He drank alcohol and coffee and wrote poetry with the goths. He never took up smoking though, his best friend became Pete, it was a couple of years before Pete first confessed his depression to Stan. Pete had trusted him not to tell the other goths, he knew Stan was depressed too. As far as he knew, Pete had never told the others about his depression, even this many years later. He figured they would understand now, they were all tight friends, they understood much more of the world now.

He had encouraged his red and black haired friend to seek counseling, but was unsure if he ever had. He hoped his friend would, hopefully before the prompting reason he had gone.
He had never told Pete why he had finally decided to seek therapy. The only people that knew, were the therapists he had told. Or if he had told anyone, he couldn't remember having done so. It was, because when he was 18(or had he been 19?), he had tried and failed, to kill himself. He had awoken, so fucking entirely shook that he had awoken. He felt incredibly nauseous, disoriented, he had called into work and gotten the third degree about doing so. He was practically crying, maybe he had been..., but his boss eventually just said whatever and he proceeded to try to find mental health help for as cheap as possible as he didn't have health insurance and had barely any spare money.
He had been lucky, to find a therapist. His first day back to work had been the worst day of the ones to follow, he couldn't stop shaking, and crying. He had to go home early because he couldn't do his job. His bosses were annoyed, but he couldn't very well stand there, crying all day, could he? He couldn't focus on anything. His partner at the time didn't notice anything amiss. Of course. As long as he paid his half of everything, everything was fine.

Stan brought the bottle to his lips for another drink, barely registering the taste, it was getting more of the alcoholic burn as he neared the end of it. Tears struggled to escape his eyes as he was lost in his memories of that time..., hard to believe it had been six or seven years ago.

His first therapist, she had been fucking great. He had stopped seeing her briefly though, she was the first to try to help him. He hadn't been into the idea of therapy at first, he wasn't trying. So he stopped going for the first time. Nothing was better though, eventually, he went back, and with his partner's urging, had agreed to try medication. The first set of pills were awful. They took away everything. He couldn't feel anything at all. Nothing was interesting either. It was an awful time, and that was the second time he had stopped going to therapy and taking his medication.

The bottle in his hands was warm now, room temperature. He took the last swig and tossed the empty bottle into the trashcan near the door to his room. It clunked in and he finally laid back, gazing up at the ceiling, his vision clear again, the tears had fallen and dried already.
He was a vastly different person from who he was back then. He had been an idealist, which had shifted to realist, and finally, had settled upon nihilist. He was vaguely envious of those who held onto their idealistic views, he wanted to be able to be like that again, but..., was it the world's fault or his own? That..., boiled down to what one believed about the world itself, whether it was nature or nurture. He smiled wryly and readjusted on his bed, so that he laid on the pillow now, next to his large Gengar plush. He closed his eyes, the alcohol had made him very tired, along with his dark musings. Perhaps..., a small nap, and then he could get up and game for a few hours. He groped blindly for his blanket and after pulling it up over himself, he rolled to his side and hugged his Gengar to him and drifted to sleep.

- Stan [p2] -

A noise bubbled up from his throat, something between a hiccup and a sob, 'Up All Night' by Blink-182 was still playing on his Xbox, as it had been since he had heard that she was gone. He felt empty, truly. Sure, they hadn't spoken in years, over ten years probably. But she had been the first one to break his heart, she had been one of his best friends at one point. She had been..., he had thought she had been one of the greatest people alive, people who could and would actually change the world one day. Just like Bebe, Token, Kyle..., he was sure Wendy would be one of the most influential people in the world one day. But she was gone. By her own fucking hand.

His mind was whirring, focused on the fact that she had successfully done it, what he had tried and failed to do, numerous times. She had succeeded. He felt sick. He stumbled to the bathroom and propped up the seat, standing, hovering over the bowl waiting to either throw up or for the nausea to pass. He had broken in a cold sweat, but nothing seemed apt to come up. He slumped down next to the toilet. Eyes vacant.
Wendy...

"I'd say I'm sorry Stan..., but..., look. We both knew this was coming. We've been off and on again for years, and nothing has changed. It never will. We're just too different. Going different places."

And then she was gone, turned on her heel, long black hair swooshing against her quickly receding back.
He was dumbfounded, crushed. He saw the sense in what she said, but it didn't mean it didn't hurt. He had dug in his locker and found his water bottle of booze and began drinking the rest of that school day, shitfaced by the second to last period. None of the teachers cared, Kyle just looked at his former best friend sadly, it was Kenny, who helped Stan home and talked quietly to Sharon once getting him home. Sharon thanked Kenny and let him take her son upstairs to his room. The three had dinner late that evening, Stan red eyed but sober for the time being. Kenny offered to stay longer but Stan brushed him off and went back to his room.

'Going different places,' he mused in his room, 'I wonder what she meant...'
'I know..., she probably didn't think I noticed..., but I did. I felt the cuts on her stomach..., the ones on her inner arms..., why wouldn't she just talk to me?' He wondered, fresh tears falling. He wanted so badly to help her. Not that he knew how, but he wanted to, because he loved her. Not in the way he should, like a boyfriend, but like a very, very good friend. He curled into a ball, crying harder.

He dashed fresh tears from his eyes, why the hell hadn't he told someone, anyone..., why the hell did kids think they could solve shit on their own?!

He grit his teeth, fist clenching, the cuts on his fist burned, he had forgotten he'd broken the mirror...
Hiccuping again, he took a few deep breaths, he had to calm down and call maintenance to fix his mirror.

He gave it a few minutes more of deep breathing, once satisfied that his voice wouldn't shake, he made the necessary call, and then slunk off to his room, turning the music down. He was still shaking. He was exhausted, but he should eat something.

Nothing sounded good, but he made himself a burrito anyway and forced it down.
Checking his phone, Stan found he had numerous messages in the group chat. He scrolled through them, and checked the date. The first meeting..., soon. Gods knew if it would be any use at all.

He shook his head and went back to his bedroom, to his Gengar plush that he pulled to his chest, his mind transporting him back to a few years ago, when Wendy had still been alive...

"Wendy..., you know, if you ever need someone to talk to...," Stan had began, having run into Wendy one winter college break wherein she was back in South Park to visit her parents.

She interrupted him, "I'm fine Stan. I've always been fine."

She sounded angry, her eyes were cold fire.
"I..., okay. Okay. I was just offering. The offer stands, it always will."

And then he had walked away, feeling her cold stare at his back the entire way out of Tweek Bros.

Why..., why had he let her cow him into leaving her alone?!
Fresh tears fell on Gengar.
Eventually though, exhaustion won out and Stan fell into an uneasy slumber.

When he awoke, while still feeling achingly empty, he had a shower and breakfast. He went back to his room and turned spotify back on. He contributed to the group chat and page.

First he wrote the newest poem into the group chat, letting them read it before posting it to the page, by itself and then atop one of Pete's pictures, if it was liked anyway.

'Guilt

Everyone has a guilty conscience,
It's preprogrammed in,
Usually first by religion.
When you're too small to know better,
It can become part of your identity.
As you grow, that sense of guilt grows,
Sometimes it morphs into a monster,
Anxiety,
Other times it just eats you up inside.
Depression.
But we're all alone,
Our actions,
Are ours.
Nothing to feel guilt over.'

He waited, nervously, for the others to read it and offer feedback. With reluctance, he put his phone down to charge while he dressed for work. He was finally going back. It was going to suck. He felt..., marginally better, not much, but more close to baseline. He didn't know if he was ready for work. But he would try. Writing had made him feel better..., it usually did.

He was about to leave for a quick coffee when he saw his phone lighting up.
Messages from Bebe and Kenny, asking if he was going to post it, saying it was awesome.

He replied to them as he left for Tweek Bros.
Ordering his usual coffee, Stan offered a small smile to Tweek as the twitchy blond accepted the money and went to make his coffee. He glanced around the shop, noting Craig sitting in a front booth and Butters in the back, he nodded to them both before thanking Tweek and leaving the shop back into the cold of the night. He was halfway down the street when he heard his name called. He glanced back to see Craig walking towards him.

"Hm?"

"That..., thing you shared in group, you wrote that?"

"Yeah," Stan replied, resuming walking once Craig had caught up, they worked together, Craig knew he needed to be there relatively soon.

"How do you do it?"

Stan waited, he knew conversation was difficult for the other black haired man.

"Putting everything into words."

"Practice, thought, some people like to just write everything down as it comes into their heads and then sort it out. I never really cared for that personally, but i can see how it would help if you're not used to writing stuff."

Craig was silent beside him and Stan went on, "Sometimes I'll listen to music, particular songs on repeat sometimes, sometimes that helps."

Still silent, Stan continued to walk briskly, South Park got damn cold at night.
Craig eventually left his side, presumably going back to the coffee shop. Stan didn't mind, Craig was a hard guy to get to talk to, but they had spoken before, working together the long nights had seen to that. He wouldn't say they were overly close, but they were probably borderline friends.

He finally arrived at work and took a deep breath. He wasn't sure if he was ready to be back. But he had to move forward.

Eventually the day of the meeting came to pass. Stan was nervous. He wondered what they would do, what they would talk about. How it would go.
He was glad when Pete showed up, having his best friend around made things easier.

At Butters' house, it wasn't nearly as awkward as he had thought it would be. The group had become relatively close, the death of their mutual friend had brought them all together. He was still devastated, if he stopped and thought too hard about it, but he was coping with it. Nothing would be the same, for any of them, but maybe..., maybe this community they were building could help not just them, but others, others around the world who were experiencing these same or similar feelings. Maybe Bebe was right, maybe they could make some sort of difference.

Alone, back at his place, her realized he was slightly optimistic, about the group and pages. It was strange. Maybe..., maybe the world hadn't quite taken all of his idealism.