There were five things Stan Marsh grew aware of upon waking up one Sunday morning in late November, during the thanksgiving break of South Park's high school year.
The first, of which is no surprise; the hangover acting like a metaphoric meteor crashing in his head. Part of which was met with the emptiness and before a torrent of nausea forming a pit in his stomach. He surely was no stranger to the punishment for the over consumption of the devil liquid, but he was also friends with a McCormick and the son of an alcoholic. Thus, he gave it the finger mentally and hesitated opening his eyes.
The second; the cool surface of the toilet seat, which his forehead rested upon. Albeit a bit surprised he managed to fall asleep in this odd position- his back arched, the aching and sore of his knees on cold bathroom tile.
Third; Stan had no pants. Now this was an important realization, given without opening his eyes he quickly reached down to check if he did still have his underwear (which thank god he did). Of course these sorts of occasions got crazy, the youth of South Park were used to substance abuse and high school party level debauchery. It was just a real drag trudging through someone's home the morning after, stepping over the bodies/probably corpses knowing his own hangover, in search of his jeans.
Probably around a flagpole somewhere at this fucking rate.
He gripped the toilet seat, taking slow shallow breaths fearing a surge of stomach acid before opening his eyes. He was thinking back to the first hangover he ever had and being caught by his father in their bathroom at home. Instead of shaking his head and spitting lectures at him like his mother would have, he marched to the kitchen and returned to his fallen son with Tylenol and a glass of water.
The morning stung his eyes, gluing their lids together before giving and revealing the bloodshot swirling pools of brown. Stan chuckled at the lack of puke in the bowl. A shaking grin formed on his lips as he placed both palms on the toilet seat, bringing his knees up from the unforgiving tile. He pushed against the crappy throne, forcing his muscles to flex to his command.
His socked feet found shaking footing, making a move to stand straight up while also not wanting to teeter over into the shower beside him. Red lines traced his legs in a grid-like pattern from the tiles in the skin of his knees and shins.
With the grace of a toddler after two years, Stan walked to the mirror to meet his reflection with the mutual distaste it had prepared for him.
His coal black hair was flattened on one side from the toilet pillow, dark bags beginning to form under his eyes, the near pale complexion of his face, and a sweaty probably sick expression on his face.
His hand found the knobs of the sink as he made a viable attempt to wash away the possible shame of the night before, the big party Bebe had planned during Thanksgiving break with a huge chunk of the student body but 'mostly just you guys and a few close friends', he mocked to himself.
As skin met with water, Stan screamed out in agony. His right hand clutching at his left, feeling as if this were really the bathroom sink or if he had wandered all the way to the kitchen to wash them in the fucking stove.
He had backed into the wall and almost fell over, meeting his shoulder with the bathroom door. The nerves in his hand screamed out, so high he wondered for a second if that's why he couldn't hear them, and if that screaming nerves expression holds any water before daring to look at his hand. He did.
And met the fourth thing.
"Oh…for fuck's sake…" He slurred his words at the ink on the back of his left hand. A heart; rosy red and pulsing, probably to do with the fact that it was still fresh and the skin had not yet healed. Stinging pink skin kissed just the edges of the image, going along the lines of the drawn in stitching of the heart to his hand.
He stared, his eyes tracing over every line, the hue of the color sending a warm weird feeling in his gut. Or he was going to throw up, that is always a possibility.
Stan sighed. "Fuck it." He reached for the medicine cabinet and searched for anything like gauze, finding a mostly used roll of bandaging.
After getting his hand together, Stan took a daring step outside the bathroom and peered down the hall. Shoes and a couple of empty bottles and cans littered their way up to the door from the living room.
Tiptoeing out into the living room, Stan watched the unconscious faces of a few kids he recognized from school. He gritted his teeth stepping over whom you recognized as Clyde-face first in a cushion he ripped from one of the couches. He eventually found his way to the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, thinking back to the many times Wendy would drag his ass up them in a hurry following her gal pals years prior.
Stan let out a light groan for the memories, too tired to think about them and surely too hung-over to care right now.
Every step sent a shot of ache through his legs until he found the top stair and crawled into a ball, looking through the bars connecting to the staircase looking over the foyer. A vase by the door laid in a pile of porcelain and dirt, a flower's colors contrasting with the sunlight beaming through the marbled glass windows beside the door frame.
A random poetic thought Stan quickly cast away as a set of footsteps sounded behind one of the bedrooms. The click and creaking of door hinges brought Stan to roll over pathetically to face the person, hearing the familiar voice let out a deep yawn and stretching above him.
"Mornin', Marsh." Craig Tucker, his signature indigo chullo missing and revealing disheveled black hair and the hung-over remnants of the teen's usual blank sullen gaze.
Stan raised his un-bandaged hand to his eyes, the blurry vision of Craig making him a mess of watercolors of blue and black. "Tucker." He replied. "Tell me, are you as fucked up as I am right now?"
Craig rolled his eyes, crouching down above his collapsed classmate. "No one is as fucked up as you on this planet, Stan. You went where no one was dumb enough to go."
"Fuck off." Stan groaned, a yawn escaping and rubbing his eyes. "I feel like shit."
"Feel like shit." Craig echoed. "Stan, where are your pants?"
"I don't fucking know, and I don't care." Stan mumbled back, climbing up the banister to stand up and meet his classmate/friend at eye level. "Wait, where's…"
Craig shrugged. "Last night is a blur, at least near the end. All I remember is we started drinking, you didn't want to, Kyle said you could, you did, and then fuck if I know what happened." He let out another yawn. "McCormick left first, fucking incredible feat that is. Took Kyle with him, oddly I thought you two fags were going to hook up-"
"Fuck off, Cr-ahggg…" Stan started and ended, his head pounding from his frustration taking hold.
Craig's lips formed the quickest of a grin before disappearing before walking away. Stan limped after him, covering his hand and praying Craig Tucker doesn't say shit about it.
"Here," Craig's voice said, followed by the view of a pill bottle came hurling at Stan before he caught it. "Take as many as you want. I'm not your fucking nurse."
Stan eyed the bottle grimacing. "Craig, where did you get Vicodin?"
Craig pointed behind him. "Bebe's mom's bathroom. Don't ask don't tell." He made his way past Stan before stopping at the top of the stairs. "And by the way, moisturize that hand before it starts peeling."
Stan's heart stopped, a single pill falling from his fingers. "Wha-"
"And for fuck sakes don't scratch it, you'll fuck it up." Followed by what Stan must've misheard as Craig Tucker chuckling. He rushed to the top of the stairs and watched as the boy pulled his shoes on and made his way out the door, his blank stare mocking Marsh just between the crack before the door closed.
"Moisturize…" Stan repeated, gazing down at his shaking left hand. The red of the heart just peaking at the top of where gauze met knuckle.
And it was then Stan sucked in a breath, remembering a snippet of the night before and having the fifth realization.
"Ky..."
—
The house had lain quiet before the heater kicked on, flooding every room with warmth through the vents. Kyle Broflovski sat at the side of his bed, clutching his knees between his palms and fingers. His finger dug their nails into his kneecaps but he didn't notice, a much greater pain ceasing from his thigh.
The itching the burning, the fucking agony. He took deep breaths, just like Kenny taught him. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out.
Fuck. Kyle bit his lip at the thought, this gesture proving to help nothing but to trigger the face of whom his lips would actually concern. With a brave breath, he unclenched his hand from his knee and moved to the left up the boxer leg of his right thigh.
His pale fragile skin was a stinging red, and traced around an ink imprint of a heart on top of his thigh, forever labeling him of who he was and how he truly felt.